


Everything's Magic

by foxxcub



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, magical au, unicorns have more fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a were-unicorn, and Arthur is the architect unknowingly out to destroy Eames' home. The rest is just a fairytale love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17669.html?thread=38112773#t38112773) on inception_kink. I have NO idea how this cracky thing got so out of hand, but thank you to everyone who commented over there and made writing this such a blast. As bookshop so aptly put it, this is Lisa Frank fic come to life. Thanks a bunch as usual to slowlikewine for the beta! Title stolen from Angels & Airwaves, and yes, this is the second time I've used it. >.>
> 
> My childhood comprised of obsessions with My Little Pony and those damn _Fantasia_ Pegasuses, let me show you it.

It starts with the obnoxious beeping at five in the morning, followed by a loud crash. Eames hears both distantly, but doesn’t quite come to until he hears Ariadne’s voice say sharply, “It’s starting.”

Eames opens his eyes, only to have a face full of angry fairy. “Bloody hell,” he says, burying his face back into his pillow. “I’m changing the locks.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. In the meantime, you won’t _have_ any locks to change if you don’t put a stop to this bullshit.” She marches over to the window and throws back the curtains, revealing evil, blinding sunshine.

“It’s too early for bullshit, love, come back in an hour, yeah?” Eames mumbles into the pillow.

“ _Eames_ , will you look at this?”

Reluctantly, he sits up, knuckles digging the sleep out of his eyes as he blinks blearily in the direction Ariadne is flailing.

And then he’s suddenly very, very awake.

“Oh, fuck me,” he breathes, getting slowly to his feet.

“Thought so,” Ariadne says. “Now, as protector of this forest, what the _hell_ are you going to do about this? Especially when it was predicted, oh, two years ago?”

Eames never believes fairy predictions, as they’re mostly rubbish. But he can’t exactly call a half dozen yellow bulldozers and a fleet of contractors rubbish.

“Fuck,” he says again, and rubs a hand over his face. “Why do _I_ have to deal with this, you’re the ones with bloody _magic_.”

“Please, do we really have to get into this magical hierarchy crap again? You know you trump me in every aspect, you just hate confrontation.”

Eames pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels a migraine coming on. “Humans, Ariadne. Fucking _humans_.”

“Who are in the process of destroying our home. Sorry to break this to you, but you are kind of our only hope here.”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t pull that Princess Leia shit with me, it’s not funny.”

“Then stop being the laziest unicorn to ever exist and _fix this_.” Her words are punctuated by another loud crash as another tree falls.

“Fine, fine!” Eames throws his hands up. “Do I have anything to go on?”

Ariadne snaps her fingers, and a handful of black and white photos appear. They’re all of one man, young and innocent-looking, with strong cheekbones and wide brown eyes. He’s—well, he’s not the ugliest human Eames has ever seen, to put it mildly.

“His name is Arthur Conroy, and he’s head of the development operation. He’s young, just started working for Cobb Industries a little over a year ago and was promoted to this project after the first guy moved to England.”

Eames sighs. “So he’s an over-achiever? Brilliant.” He’ll more than likely have a stick up that pretty arse of his.

“He graduated top of his class from Stanford and got his MBA in like, less than a year. So...yeah, pretty much.” Ariadne smirks. “He also happens to like really buff guys.”

“That is less funny than the Star Wars jokes.”

“I’m _serious_ here, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“So I’m just supposed to what, _seduce_ him into dropping what’s no doubt a multi-million dollar project? Throw some sparkles at him and grant him a wish? It doesn’t work that way, and you know it. My magic only works on those who want it, end of story.”

Ariadne huffs and rolls her eyes. “There’s something else I haven’t told you about him.”

“Oh, let me guess, he makes amazing waffles in the morning?” Eames snips, collapsing dejectedly back into bed.

“No. He’s still a virgin.”

Eames bolts upright. “He’s _what?_ But—he can’t be more than—”

“Twenty-five. He’ll be twenty-six next January.” She puts her hands on her tiny hips. “Now, tell me, Mr. Smartass, is that enough for you to work with?”

He looks out the window at the mass of on-coming construction, then back at the photos scattered on the bed. Taking a deep breath, he says, “Yeah. I think I can change his mind.”

“Good. Glad you can finally be a grown-up about all this.” And with a quick flash, Ariadne disappears, leaving Eames alone in his bedroom to figure out a plan.

~

It hasn’t always been like this, of course. Eames still remembers the days when he didn’t know the first thing about fairies or dragons or talking animals who live in a magically protected forest. He remembers the time when he was still human, living his life as a simple, lonely farmer who let a bedraggled old man take shelter from a storm one night in his home. The man was sick, half-starved, and Eames had wrapped him in a blanket and offered him soup and a kind voice.

“You’re very kind,” the old man had said, smiling at Eames. “And yet, you are all alone here on your lands.”

Eames shrugged. “I like looking after my lands, my animals. It suits me.”

“Have you ever wished for more? That your life had more...purpose?”

He’d thought at the time that the man was senile, suffering from fever, or worse. But Eames humored the man, said, “I suppose. We never really know our true destiny, do we?”

“No,” the old man said with a sudden sparkle in his eyes, “not always. But some of us do.” And then there was a bright spark of light and Eames instantly felt his skin tingle, like his body had become weightless. He looked down at his hands, and the tips of his fingers were glowing.

“What’s happening to me?”

The old man was now standing before him, tall and regal, his tattered clothes gone, replaced by an elegant robe. He was smiling knowingly at Eames. “I’ve watched you for some time now, Eames,” he said. “You’ve a good heart, solid and true. You also have a gift.”

“A gift? But—” Eames squeaked as the room began to fill with light. He realized he was floating. “I’m not special! I’m just a farmer!”

“You’re much more than that,” the man—the _wizard_ —said. “You’re a protector. And from now on, you’ll be able to pursue your destiny.”

Eames remembered everything growing white and warm, and when he came to again, he was in a beautiful field on the edge of a lush, green forest. He tried to stand, but found he couldn’t find his bearings, that his center of gravity was off, and his body felt...bigger. Wider.

Then he glanced at the ground and saw hooves.

“Welcome to Abbigrail Forest, Eames,” he heard the wizard’s voice say. “Your new home.”

All in all, that was the moment that changed Eames’ life, some three hundred years ago. Because in that moment, Eames learned he’d become a unicorn.

~

Arthur’s running late. Again.

Traffic’s a nightmare, the sky is turning an ominous dark color, and he’s sorely lacking a coffee the size of his head. It’s nine-thirty and Arthur was due at the Abbigrail site an hour ago. _Fuck._

Naturally, his phone goes off just as he’s stumbling through the door of the coffee shop closest to the site. He orders the biggest latte on the menu with a billion shots and two pumps of hazelnut and answers without checking the caller ID.

“Yeah, Dom, I know, I’m on my way.”

“Just checking. You’ve got the blueprints on you, right?”

Arthur pats his leather messenger bag absently. “‘Course, it’s all here. Did you start without me?”

“They started clearing yesterday, but the real fun starts when you get down here.”

He winces. His first time as lead on a project and he pisses his boss off. Scratch that—boss _and_ owner of the company. Arthur wishes he could reboot the whole damn week.

“Right, sure, I’ll be there in ten—” He turns abruptly and smacks right into a solid wall of muscle. And said wall of muscle promptly dumps his coffee—right onto Arthur’s open messenger bag.

“ _Shit!_ ” Arthur scrambles to avoid the worst of it, but it’s too late. Coffee goes everywhere, and Arthur thinks, _Perfect. Fucking perfect._

“I’m sorry, I’m so, _so_ sorry,” the wall of muscle says contritely. “I didn’t see you, I tried to catch myself, but—”

“No, it’s okay, I—” He realizes belatedly that he still has Dom on the phone, only the line has since gone dead. Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t even want to look in his bag and see the blueprints that are now floating in coffee.

“I feel awful,” the man says, grabbing handfuls of napkins and dabbing feebly at Arthur’s bag. “Let me make it up to you.”

“If only,” Arthur mutters, sighing before he glances up and meets the man’s eyes.

It’s like a kick in the chest. The breath rushes out of Arthur’s lungs, and he can do nothing but stare, a hot flush spreading along his neck.

The man is absolutely beautiful, and Arthur—Arthur feels dizzy for a moment, like he could just fall into him and lose himself forever. Like he could bury his face in the man’s neck, breathe him in, and be happy for the rest of his life.

Arthur blinks, and the dizziness instantly fades. The man tilts his head, frowning curiously.

“Are you all right?” he asks, a soft, purring English accent wrapping around his words.

“Fine, I’m fine, I just...” Arthur shakes his head, holds his hand out. “I’m, uh, Arthur, by the way.”

“Eames,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I am normally not so clumsy in the mornings, I promise. I hope I didn’t, erm.” He flails his hand at Arthur’s messenger bag. “Ruin anything?”

Arthur’s stomach drops as he comes back to reality. The blueprints. The Abbigrail project. Fucking _coffee_. “It’s okay. My week has an ongoing theme, which is Sucktastic.” His office is twenty minutes from here. That’s almost another hour tacked on to his tardiness.

Eames looks terribly guilty. There are wet splatters of coffee all over his gray t-shirt, which is sticking to his chest, which, again, looks solid and wide and yeah, okay, at least _something_ isn’t going sucktastic right now. Arthur’s heart beats a little faster, and now he feels guilty for ogling Eames when he should be hauling ass back to the office.

“Look, let me make it up to you.” Eames fumbles his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and takes out a business card. He hands it to Arthur. “Call me and we’ll do lunch, yeah? I’d say coffee, but obviously that’s out of the question.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh, and Arthur feels that tingling of euphoria again, like he could listen to Eames laugh a million times over and never tire of it.

He glances down at the card in his hand. It just reads _Eames: Certified Life Consultant_.

“You’re a—a life coach?”

“That’s a ridiculous title, and no, I’m not. I’m a consultant.”

Arthur turns the card over in his hands. The cardstock is vaguely shiny, sparkles as it catches the light just right. There’s a single phone number on the back.

“When should I—”

“Oh, when your schedule clears up. Obviously you’re quite busy at the moment. My schedule is quite flexible, so whenever you get a moment, ring me and I’ll do my best to make amends.” He flashes a brilliant smile at Arthur, making him flush again and feel lightheaded.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, dazed. “Okay. Lunch.”

“Wonderful.” He salutes Arthur with two fingers, bowing his head slightly. “I hope I didn’t spoil your day, Arthur.” The way his voice curls around Arthur’s name makes warmth spiral in soft tendrils through Arthur’s stomach.

He’s still standing in the middle of the coffee shop long after Eames disappears, blueprints sloshing around in his bag.

~

“This isn’t going to work,” Eames sighs, pacing the length of his kitchen.

Ariadne looks up from the pint of ice cream she’s devouring. She’s perched on the counter, legs crossed and wings folded neatly against her back. “Of course it is. It has to.”

“How can you eat ice cream at a time like this? Just yesterday morning you were screaming in my face about the end of the bloody world.”

“Because you always keep Cherry Garcia in your freezer.”

Eames rolls his eyes, glancing out the front window. The construction has halted for the day, no doubt because Arthur didn’t show up with the blueprints. He hates the twinge of guilt he feels, knowing he’s sabotaging an innocent man’s livelihood, but Ariadne was right—it’s Eames’ job to protect this forest. He’s done it for the past three hundred years, and he won’t let a baby-faced architect get in the way of that.

Somehow, one of the men looks up in the direction of Eames’ house. Eames freezes, even though he knows they can’t see him, that his house is invisible unless Eames allows them to see it. But he recognizes the straight shoulders, the way the man holds his chin up.

It’s Arthur.

“Did he respond to you?” Ariadne asks, practically reading his mind. Which she’s totally capable of doing.

“He—yeah, I think so.” It had been so strange, yet oddly heady; it’s been years since Eames had someone sense him so quickly, as if they were drawn to him with every fiber of their being. Eames doesn’t use his magic the way the fairies do; it’s beyond his control. Usually only children of a very young age respond to him, because they _want_ to believe in him.

Children, and then there are virgins, and Eames...well. Eames doesn’t normally make it a point to seek out virgins on a regular basis, and these days encountering one over the age of seventeen was a rare feat. He’s forgotten what it was like to feel the sudden urge to—to _protect_ something that wasn’t related to Abbigrail Forest.

But the moment he’d seen Arthur in person, he’d felt an overwhelming need to rush across the coffee house and fall to his knees, press his face against Arthur’s stomach and breathe him in.

It was more than a little unsettling.

“You haven’t actually experienced a virgin, have you?” Ariadne’s words are slightly muddled; she doesn’t bother taking the spoon out of her mouth as she speaks.

Eames snorts and rolls his eyes. “I’m older than you are by about a hundred years, love. I think I’ve had my share.”

“No, I mean a _true_ virgin—like, everything the stories talk about, goodness and truth, blah blah blah, someone who truly is deserving of—”

“How have we gone from the apocalypse to you spouting off about _true virgins_?”

“I’m just saying! This all feels very...” She waves her hand thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Prophetic. Maybe Cobb Industries coming into Abbigrail was _meant_ to happen. Maybe you’re meant for Arthur.”

Eames plucks the carton of ice cream from her fingers. “I think you’ve had enough. You’re babbling romantic nonsense when my sodding house is in danger of being demolished.”

“You felt that pull to him, I know you did.”

“Irrelevant,” Eames replies haughtily, throwing the ice cream in the freezer. “Now, please explain to me how I’m supposed to convince this man that he shouldn’t tear down a magical forest that’s home to all sorts of magical creatures, namely a unicorn who hypothetically may be his soulmate or whatever.”

Ariadne smirks. “You don’t tell him you’re a unicorn, for one. Besides, he’s already half in love with you. You can’t fight true magic like that.”

“If you don’t stop going on about that, I’m getting Yusuf involved.”

“Please, Yusuf’s in hibernation. A nuclear bomb could go off and he’d sleep through it.”

This was the inherent problem with having a thousand-year-old dragon as a friend—they were _always_ sleeping. “Fine, then what—”

His phone rings, high and shrill. The caller ID flashes _ARTHUR_.

Eames runs back to the window. He can make out Arthur pacing the length of one of the construction trailers, a cell phone to his ear.

“You gonna answer that?” Ariadne says, sounding far too smug.

Without looking away from the kitchen window, Eames answers with, “Took you long enough.”

He hears a pause, then quiet laughter. Even over the phone, the sound makes Eames’ stomach grow warm, like sunshine just after a thunderstorm. _Damn it_. “Sorry, I—you said it yourself, I’m swamped. I’m still swamped, but I thought maybe...”

“Lunch?” Eames asks. “I know a lovely little Italian place downtown. Homemade risotto—”

He can see Arthur smile down at his feet as he kicks his toe absently into the dirt. “Bernice’s, yeah, that sounds great. Tomorrow, then? Noon?”

“See you then. And stay away from coffee shops in the meantime.”

Arthur laughs, which in turn makes Eames grin goofily out the window before he hangs up. When he turns around, Ariadne is staring at him with wide-eyed amazement.

“Oh my god,” she says. “It really is destiny. Holy shit.”

Eames points his phone at her. “I’m saving our goddamned home, that’s all!”

“Eames, you’re fucking glowing. Literally.” She points to his forehead, and Eames winces, rubbing at the warm spot just above the center of his eyes.

“‘s nothing,” he mutters, and Ariadne laughs.

~

“Why do you keep doing that?”

Arthur startles a bit, looks guilty away from the trailer window at Dom. “Do what?”

“Staring out into the forest, like you’re searching for something. Let me tell you, clearing land is a pain in the ass—the less time you spend memorizing the before pictures, the better.”

Arthur sighs and rubs a hand over his cheek. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since he last spoke to Eames on the phone, and yet he just. Can’t stop thinking about him. Which is so incredibly stupid, he spilled fucking coffee on the guy and they made a lunch date. There’s absolutely no reason he should be _mooning_ over him like a fifteen-year-old with a crush.

 _This is what I get for never dating_ , he thinks ruefully. Two diplomas on his wall and well on his way to a six figure salary before the age of twenty-six, and yet Arthur’s barely kissed anyone, unless you include Kara Gerald’s eighth grade birthday party. It’s not that he’s never had the opportunity, it’s simply never been a priority to be in a relationship. Numbers, figures, engineering— _that_ was Arthur’s life, and love was just something that sat in the back of his mind like an abstract concept he’d read about in a book somewhere.

And yet, for some unknown reason, he keeps finding himself staring out into the trees and letting his mind wander to Eames’ smile, the way his soft voice rumbles with just a hint of roughness at the edges. His business card still sits in Arthur’s wallet, but Arthur doesn’t take it out. It’s enough knowing it’s there, pressed up against the front of Arthur’s driver’s license.

... _Christ_ , what is _wrong_ with him? He’s waxing poetic about a fucking sparkly business card for a life consultant. Arthur needs a drink. Or a good fuck.

His cheeks flush hotly. He needs a lot of things, actually.

“You okay?” his boss asks, eyeing Arthur over the top of his coffee cup. “You’ve been really out of it since day one on this. Is something bothering you?”

Arthur looks over at him, realizes that the coffee cup in Dom’s hand is from the same coffee shop where—

“No, I’m fine,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Just, uh—a little on edge about this project, that’s all.”

“I trust you on this. I know you’re young, but you’ve got my full confidence.” Dom pats his arm, a sympathetic look in his eyes. “Everyone needs their first big, scary-as-fuck moment, right? I’ve been in your shoes, you’ll survive. That’s why I hired you.”

Arthur nods, takes a deep breath and smiles.

It’s only when Dom turns back to the blueprints that Arthur glances back out the window into the forest. For a split second, he swears he sees a quick flash of brilliant light, there and gone in an instant.

His heart beats faster.

~

Eames repeats the plan to himself, over and over. He’ll ease into his speech at first, explain to Arthur that Abbigrail Forest is important, that the city needs its trees and natural venues to be a healthy, sustaining community.

It sounds lame and flowery even in his head, but it’s not like Eames can threaten Arthur with angry fairies, or a two thousand pound unicorn pummeling his construction trailer to pieces. He has to do this rationally; it’s just incredibly unfortunate that Arthur’s not a four-year-old girl easily distracted by glitter and a shiny white coat. It would make Eames’ job a hell of a lot easier.

No, he’s got a plan, and it _has to work_.

But then Eames looks up from the table to find Arthur standing there, looking slightly sheepish and tentative and maybe even eager, the knot of his tie loosened and sitting crooked at his throat.

Suddenly the plan sort of crumbles and dissolves.

“You’re early,” Eames says after swallowing twice to find his voice.

“For once. I didn’t accidentally knock random pedestrians into traffic or anything, so that’s a plus.” Arthur huffs out a laugh, ducking his head, and the sudden force with which Eames feels the need to curl up with his head in Arthur’s lap is ridiculous.

He blinks hard, curls his hands against the table. “I doubt you’re the accident-prone type.”

“I’m not, but this week has been—not the best.” Arthur slides into the seat across from Eames, pushes the rolled cuffs of his shirt further up his forearms as he looks over the menu.

Eames wants to bury his face in Arthur’s neck and _smell him_.

Bloody hell.

“What—what is it you do?” He keeps his voice level.

“I’m an architect. Mostly in commercial real estate.” Arthur smirks at him, a quick flash of a dimple. “I’m boring as fuck, in other words.”

“No, that’s—you’re not boring at all.” The words just tumble out of Eames’ mouth without his consent, which never happens, ever. He gives a half-crazed laugh, wondering if Arthur has wizard genes.

Arthur shrugs. “What makes you say that? Special life consultant powers?” He does lazy air quotes.

“Let’s just say I know how to read people.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“I don’t have magical powers, if that’s what you’re implying.” Eames stares down at his menu and does not blush at all.

“I know, but I’d probably like you a whole lot more if you did.”

Eames’ gaze snaps up to find Arthur wincing, the tips of his ears bright pink. He has absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

“So, um, how does one get into the life consultant business?” Arthur asks after an awkward pause, fidgeting with his water glass.

“I sort of...fell into it. It was a calling I never knew I possessed.”

“To tell people how to live their lives?”

“Helping people, guiding them down the right path.” _Protecting them_ almost comes out, but Eames catches himself in time.

“Do you have a lot of clients?”

“You could say that, yeah.” Two dozen fairies, a family of fawns, a couple of obsessive-compulsive dwarfs and a lazy-arsed dragon, to name a few. Abbigrail Forest was full of creatures with issues. “They’re a motley crew, but I adore them all, like a family. I can honestly say I love what I do.”

Arthur looks wistful for a moment, his expression open, vulnerable, and Eames is reminded once again of how young he is. “I want to have that,” Arthur says quietly. “I want to know what it’s like to wake up and know I’m going to be doing something that I love.”

Eames’ fingers twitch with the urge to take Arthur’s hand, pull him close and whisper into his hair that things will be okay. “You’ve only just started out in life, yeah? Give it time.”

“Yeah, but.” Arthur looks away. “What if there’s more than this, you know? What if all the time I’ve spent in school was for nothing and this isn’t what I’m meant for?”

“How can any of us every be sure of that?”

Arthur shakes his head. “We can’t.” He smiles, but it’s a sad little grin, lost yet hopeful. “Sorry, I can’t believe I’m unloading on you like this, it’s just—I feel like I—it’s stupid but—”

All the air has mysteriously left Eames’ lungs. “You feel like what?”

Arthur leans forward, brown eyes wide and searching. “It’s...like I know you, somehow. Like none of this feels strange at all. Like I could tell you anything.”

Time freezes around them, electricity hanging in the air, filtered by a tension Eames has never felt before. He can’t look away from Arthur, can hardly find the words to express what’s happening to him, to _them_.

Then the waiter walks up to the table, and the moment is gone. “Are you both ready to order, or do you need more time?”

“No,” Eames says quickly, “we don’t need any more time, thanks.” He shoves his menu at the guy, orders the chicken marsala before mumbling an excuse and racing to the bathroom. He’s got to _think_ , and apparently he can’t do that around Arthur.

Once locked safely behind the bathroom door, he dials Ariadne’s cell number. He appreciates the fact that fairies treat their cells like pagers; he leaves a message of _Get to Bernice’s men’s room now_ , and five seconds later, Ariadne is sitting on the edge of the marble counter top, frowning at Eames.

“You’re panicking,” she says. “You never panic.”

“I bloody well _know_ I’m panicking.”

“Why? Is he not going to listen to you? Did he blow you off?”

“No,” Eames says miserably, slumping against the bathroom stall. “I think I’m in love with him. And he’s in love with me.”

Ariadne makes a choking sound. “Seriously? But that’s—that’s _great_ , it’s _perfect_.”

“It’s not _perfect_ , it’s fucking awful, and now I have no idea how to fix this and we’re all fucked.”

“Eames, what—”

“Is this all me, Ari? Am I causing this? Because I want to make it stop. I can’t be in love with him, because even now the thought of making him stop this project and ruin his chances at a flourishing career makes something die inside me. And I can’t save our home if I’m writing bloody Shakespearean sonnets to him, now can I?”

She bites her lip. “I mean...he _is_ a virgin, and you do have powers over them...maybe the fact that he’s older means he’s more susceptible to you, and you to him? Then again, this could just be destiny.”

“Destiny doesn’t work like some horrible love potion.”

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight, Eames? You’re a unicorn, for fuck’s sake!”

“A pragmatic unicorn that doesn’t appreciate been magically manipulated into falling in love with virgin architects. God, what a sodding mess.” He cups both hands over his face.

“Look, have you thought about maybe, possibly...telling Arthur what you really are?”

The look Eames gives her is very close to deadly.

“ _Fine_ , it was just an idea. If he’s in love with you, what does it matter?”

“It matters because this _isn’t_ love, it’s some ridiculous magic that I don’t know how to control, to say nothing of the fact that I can’t have him running back to his boss demanding to halt construction because the love of his life, a three-hundred-year-old unicorn, happens to live in the forest they’re about to demolish.”

“He’s in love, not crazy.”

“What’s the bloody difference?” Eames cries.

Ariadne points her finger at him. “You’ve never been in love, admit it. You’re terrified.”

He shoves off the bathroom stall, waving her off. “Useless know-it-all fairies,” he mutters under his voice.

He’s not in love, he’s under a spell. He’ll fix this.

Arthur’s waiting for him at the table, scrolling through his Blackberry and worrying his lower lip. His hair falls over his forehead, barely into his eyes, and he’s toying absently with the knot of his tie.

Eames’ chest clenches, but he resists the urge to turn and run.

He’s fought the forces of evil and won many times over. He can deal with an annoying bout of love.

Arthur glances up, grins in what looks an awful lot like relief. “Hey,” he says, “I, uh, was worried I’d scared you off.”

Something shimmers and blooms deep inside Eames, and he says, “You don’t scare me,” without a second thought.

It doesn’t feel like a lie at all.

~

They talk for two and a half hours, about nothing and everything; sports, movies, the fact that Eames believes Gain should be made into a type of deodorant, the way Arthur can’t stand the taste of oranges. It feels like the greatest date Arthur’s ever been on, if he’d ever been on one before. By the time he glances absently at his watch and sees that it’s nearly three o’clock, he feels like he’s known Eames his whole life.

“Fuck, I gotta go,” Arthur says reluctantly. “I have a meeting with my boss in an hour. I should’ve been back at the site ages ago.”

“Which site is that?” Eames is sprawled in his chair, and Arthur swears he can feel the edge of Eames’ sneaker pressing up against his foot beneath the table.

He licks his lips, an anxious, giddy shiver sliding up his spine. “Abbigrail Forest, just outside of town? We’re clearing it to make a new outdoor mall that’s supposed to open next spring. Fancy stuff, with a 30 screen movie theater and a Barnes & Noble.”

Eames nods, but he looks unimpressed. Not that Arthur blames him; malls are boring. Arthur’s more about skyscrapers and cutting edge design, not a three-story Macy’s.

Then Eames says, “What about the animals in the forest? What’ll happen to them?”

He’s never really thought about it, to be honest. “I don’t know. No one’s ever said anything about it? I mean, the National Wildlife Federation never came in and made a fuss, so...”

“Maybe not, but not all forests are well-known by organizations.”

Arthur tilts his head at him. “Are you attached to this place?”

Eames takes a deep breath, broad shoulders expanding slowly. Arthur’s mouth goes dry. “In a way, yes. I’d heard about the development, and it—the forest is important, that’s all. Far more valuable than some mall.” He makes a face, which for some reason makes Arthur smile.

“I guess I didn’t—” His phone goes off at that moment with Dom’s number on the screen.

Before he can even answer, Dom’s blurting out, “You need to get down here ASAP. There’s a problem, a _big_ problem.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. “What happened?”

“I can’t even—you’ll have to see it to believe it.”

He shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’ll be down there in twenty.” He hangs up, and all the contented euphoria he’s felt with Eames for the last few hours vanishes.

Well, almost. He feels two fingers touch the back of his hand, and it’s like a shimmer of warmth spreads through his entire body. Arthur looks up, meets Eames’ eyes—blue, devastatingly blue, perfect—are full of concern and—something else. Something fierce.

“Are you all right?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes, unable to look away. “Something happened at the site, I have to get down there.” _Can I see you tonight?_ he thinks with too much desperation.

Eames nods, pulling his hand away. Arthur instantly feels bereft. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thanks for lunch. I—it was really great.” _Call me tonight. Call me to ask my shoe size, anything._

But Eames just gives him a careful smile as they both stand and walk out together, elbows brushing ever so slightly as they step out into the early afternoon sunshine. “It really was,” Eames says. “I hope everything at your site is okay.”

“It’s probably nothing.” Arthur grits his teeth, then says in a rush, “I want to see you again. If, um, that’s okay with you?” God, he’s never done this before, never realized just how much it sucks to ask someone out. Or to wait out that moment that stretches on like an eternity as the other person mulls it over.

Eames sighs, not saying a word, and Arthur wants to punch himself for not having more tact. It’s only been _lunch_ , after all, they’re not dating, they don’t even know each other—

“Tomorrow night,” Eames replies, and then, _then_ , he’s stepping forward, into Arthur’s space, and sliding a warm, smooth hand over Arthur’s cheek, thumb skimming the corner of his lip, and Arthur does. not. breathe. Not even when Eames presses their mouths together in a kiss that’s just barely past chaste.

When he pulls away, Arthur can’t help the gasp that escapes him. Twenty-five years, and he finally gets a kiss worth having, even if it’s soft and brief.

“Tomorrow,” he breathes, and Eames trails his thumb down Arthur’s jaw before dropping his hand.

He gives Arthur another crooked grin, the tops of his cheeks faintly pink, and then turns to head down the sidewalk, away from Arthur.

~

Eames is shaken out of his dazed, Arthur-filled fog by a text from Ariadne.

_Yusuf decided to help._

He stops dead in his tracks and swears, loudly.

Suddenly Arthur’s site problems make perfect sense.

~

“I thought you knew I had this under control.”

“That’s not what Ari said.”

Eames shoots her a look. Ariadne glares at Yusuf and says shortly, “That is _not_ what I said, what I said was—”

“Eames was falling for a virgin and we might have to take matters into our own hands.”

She sighs as Eames flails his hands. “You _told him that?_ ”

“Eames—”

“ _I’m not in love with him_.”

“I know you kissed him. Your forehead’s glowing again.”

“That’s not the fucking point.” Eames still rubs at his forehead and totally ignores the part about kissing Arthur, because—because he doesn’t want to think about that right now. “What _is_ the point is that someone decided _quite erroneously_ —” He jabs a finger into Yusuf’s chest. “—to set fire to a trailer.”

Yusuf rolls his eyes. Sometimes Eames really hates it when he chooses to be in human form. He looks far too mild-mannered and innocent this way. “They’ve stopped mowing down tress, have they not?”

“Because the fire trucks are in the way.”

“Oh, semantics. This way is far more practical than trying to woo a virgin.”

“Someone could have seen you! It’s not every day a bloody _dragon_ goes charging into a construction site!”

Yusuf holds up a hand. “I was quite careful.”

“You should be asleep. Spring hasn’t even started yet.”

“Forgive me for lending a hand to save my home.”

Eames shoves at his shoulders. “You’re ruining Arthur’s project! Now his boss will be upset and somehow blame this on him. It’s not like he’s had the best week, anyway, but this isn’t _him_ , he deserves better than this!”

He pauses, panting slightly, while both Yusuf and Ariadne stare at him like he’s absolutely lost his mind.

Yusuf puts a hand to his mouth. “Oh my.”

Ariadne nods. “See? Told you. He’s totally in love.”

Eames growls in frustration, looking out his kitchen window for the umpteenth time. Smoke still rises from the charred ashes of the trailer’s remains. He can just make out Arthur standing to one side, arms folded across his chest, shoulders slightly hunched. To his right, another man is speaking to Arthur, gesturing toward the burned mess.

It’s almost overwhelming, the need Eames has to charge across the clearing and go to Arthur, curl himself around him and protect him from everyone and everything that’s making him doubt himself.

“This isn’t his fault,” Eames says softly. “It’s not.”

Behind him, Yusuf sighs. “It’s not the end of the world, mate. I’m sure they’ll be up and running by tomorrow. Your wooing can carry on.”

 _Tomorrow_. God, he actually promised Arthur—he _wants_ to see him smile again, especially now.

“No more bloody fires, understand?” He points at Yusuf. “You’re not to interfere with this anymore, but for fuck’s sake, try a little subtly next time?”

Yusuf beams at him, slapping Eames affectionately on the shoulder. “Of course. If I’d only known how truly serious you were about this whole love business, I’d have stayed asleep for another few weeks.”

Eames feels a warm surge between his eyes, and Ariadne grins as well.

“When was the last time you saw a unicorn in love, Yusuf?” she asks, much to Eames’ chagrin.

“Oh, not for many, many years. The timing has to be just right, you know. A cosmic event, if you will. To be honest, I thought another hundred years or so would go by before we saw our dear Eames fall so quickly.”

He’s had enough. “I’m going to sleep for another hundred years, thank you,” Eames mumbles. “Wake me when Yusuf stops babbling nonsense, yeah?”

Ariadne calls after him as he disappears down the hall to his bedroom, “He means destiny, Eames!”

Eames slams his door and buries himself under his comforter.

~

Arthur never dreams. Or at least, he doesn’t remember dreaming since he was a kid, when he would wake up with memories of flying and feeling of clouds beneath his fingertips.

He collapses into bed well after midnight, brain exhausted yet running at full tilt because Cobb is losing his shit over the trailer fire and the schedule is now behind by at least two weeks if not more. Only a few days in, and already the project is “bleeding money,” and Arthur feels like he’s failing for the first time in his life. It’s not at all how he thought his first big job would go.

So he lies in bed, pillow hugged to his chest, and tries to think of something other than his career going up in flames like the trailer. Arthur closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and slowly an image of Eames from earlier that day comes to mind; he’s grinning crookedly at Arthur, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin with his thumb, blue eyes warm and affectionate and just...focused. Like Arthur is all that exists in that moment.

He sinks into sleep his cheek pressed into the pillow, smiling to himself, heartbeat slow and steady, shoulders relaxed. For now, the stress of the day is gone.

And then he’s standing in a forest with tall trees all around, branches reaching to the sky, criss-crossing thickly enough to only allow in slits of sunshine. It’s quiet, but nothing ominous. Arthur feels a deep contentment wash over him, and he tips his face up into the intermittent beams of sunlight.

He hears a snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves. Arthur turns, only to be momentarily blinded by a bright flash of light. He holds his hands up, but he’s not afraid. If anything, he feels—anticipation.

“Wondered if I’d ever find you here,” a familiar voice says, close and intimate as if right against Arthur’s ear, skimming over his neck. Arthur shivers, but he can’t see a thing. Only white.

But he knows that voice. It’s as if he’s known it his entire life.

“So I’m here. What are you going to do about it?” he asks, smirking a little as his heart thumps heavily in his chest.

Something like a gentle caress—the careful slide of knuckles, maybe—slide down his cheek, and suddenly Arthur’s mouth is wet and he wants—he _wants_ —

“Do you believe in destiny?” the voice whispers, low and husky.

Arthur swallows, reaches his hand out to touch something, anything. “I—I don’t know. I never thought about it before.”

“Do you believe you’re made for someone, that every inch of yourself is meant for them and them alone to cherish?”

He closes his eyes. Unbidden, he thinks of Eames. “Maybe,” he whispers back. “It’s ridiculous, though—destiny isn’t real. Is it?”

The blinding light suddenly fades, and standing before him is Eames, bathed in a soft glow, his eyes piercingly blue.

“I think it’s very real,” Eames says, and cups Arthur’s cheek. “It’s as real as you and me.”

Arthur can barely breathe. “Eames, I—”

“Arthur.” There’s a spark, and a beam of light begins to glow between Eames’ eyes. “There’s a reason you’re drawn to me. There’s a reason for all of this.” Eames’ shape begins to blur, the outline of his body growing fuzzy, out of focus.

“I don’t—Eames, don’t go, please, just—”

“I’ve never—I want to show you everything. I’ve never felt that before with a—”

“Show me what?”

Eames’ body somehow shifts, elongates, and the spark between his eyes grows so bright, Arthur shields his eyes and looks away.

There’s silence now, except for the rapid pounding of Arthur’s heart. When he finally lowers his hands, Arthur opens his eyes and gasps.

Where Eames once stood, there is now a tall, powerful, beautiful horse. A horse with a single horn growing from the center of its head. The horse shakes its mane and the hair shimmers in the light, like glitter. Like magic.

Arthur blinks. The horse looks back at him.

Its eyes are a devastating blue.

Without hesitation, Arthur reaches out to lay his hand on the horse’s muzzle. The tips of his fingers slide over the warm, smooth coat, and the horse presses into his touch, steps forward, its huge, muscular body surrounding Arthur as if—

As if _protecting him_.

~

Arthur startles awake twenty minutes before his alarm clock, breathing hard. His hand is stretched out across the empty side of the bed, fingers splayed and slightly curled, like they’re trying to cling to something.

He buries his face into his pillow and sighs, thinking there may be a very real possibility that he’s going crazy.

~

It’s not yet dawn and Eames is already up, sitting at his kitchen table with the biggest mug of coffee he could get his hands on. He feels hungover, but he knows it’s nothing like that. A hangover wouldn’t leave him so shaken the morning after.

He dreamed last night. He dreamed that Arthur came to the forest, and that he changed for Arthur, right before his eyes. And then Arthur had _touched_ him, and Eames had never felt such overwhelming possessiveness, such _purpose_ , like he would lay down his life for Arthur in that moment without question.

It was, to say the least, a rather terrifying dream. Not to mention Eames hasn’t dreamed since before he’d been turned. He’d figured, up until now, that dreaming was for mortal humans.

“What the fuck does it all mean?” Eames mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his face. His skin actually feels tingly, like it does not long after he’s turned in real life, which is absurd.

And yet...

A soft knock at his front door shakes Eames from his thoughts. He knows it’s not Ariadne, who usually just appears uninvited in his kitchen, and it’s certainly not Yusuf, who hasn’t been conscious for a sunrise in centuries.

No, he opens the door to find Miles standing there, dressed in an ancient cardigan and loafers and carrying a pipe. He’s truly the most unassuming wizard Eames has ever known.

“I brought some tea,” Miles says pleasantly, holding up a box of Earl Grey. “But I distinctly smell coffee, so perhaps I’m too late.”

Eames waves him inside without comment. There’s no point in arguing with wizards before dawn, anyway.

“I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you lately.” Miles shuffles over to the cupboards and roots around for Eames’ teakettle, never once setting down his pipe.

Eames slumps back into his chair and clings to his coffee mug. When he was still human (and a proper British common man) he loved a good cup of tea; sadly, his supernatural tendencies pointed him toward dark blend espresso roasts these days.

“Let me guess, Ariadne spoke with you about my issues.”

Miles frowns at him over his shoulder, teakettle in hand. “Haven’t spoken to her in weeks, actually. But I’m sure she’s concerned; everyone is. These are turbulent times now.”

Eames groans, buries his head in his folded arms on the table. “I’m _trying_ , all right? It’s just—magic is infuriating sometimes, especially when it’s beyond your control.”

“Is that a fact?” Miles puts the water on to boil, then sits in the chair across from Eames. He gestures with his pipe. “Who’s to say any of this is magic at all?”

“Arthur’s a virgin. He’s bloody _in love with me_ , and I—I’m—”

“You fancy yourself in love with him as well?”

“It’s not love, I know it’s not, but...”

Miles smiles gently. “Tell me, Eames, did you have a dream last night?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

“And in it, did you show your true form to Arthur?”

He nods.

“Then it’s not magic at all. Well, it is, to an extent, but only in that magic put you both on your paths ages ago. Does it not strike you as interesting that Arthur’s twenty-five, yet still a virgin?”

“I suppose, but—”

“Have you wondered why?”

Eames shrugs, staring down into his coffee mug. Arthur’s brilliant, gorgeous, with a sharp sense of humor. Anyone would be lucky to have him. “He’s devoted himself to his studies, to his career.”

“There are many young men in this world just as driven as Arthur, but most of them have had sexual relationships long before they reach their mid-twenties. Now, ask yourself—you’ve never dreamed until now, yes?”

“Not since I was human.”

“And now you’ve dreamed for the first time since being turned, and it’s all about a young man who is all that stands in your way from protecting your home, which is your number one priority.”

“Yes...”

Miles leans forward, looks at Eames over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “But what did you want to protect in the dream, Eames? Were you thinking of Abbigrail Forest?”

Eames goes pink, breath catching in his throat.

The shrill whistle of the teakettle saves him from answering.

“There’s more to this than you realize,” Miles says, getting up from the table. He pats Eames on the shoulder. “I know you’re cynical, that you want everything to be practical, in its place. But sometimes, things happen for a reason. Sometimes, magic works for us in ways we never imagined.”

Eames thinks of Arthur, of the way his eyes fluttered closed the instant Eames had leaned forward to kiss him, his tiny, gorgeous gasp when Eames had pulled away, making him want to dive in and lose himself in Arthur’s taste and smell and _everything_.

“Oh god,” Eames breathes. _I really am in love._

“Do you have any sugar, love?” Miles asks, but he’s smiling to himself as he rummages through the cabinets.

~

Despite the fire and overall craptasticness of the previous day, Arthur gets to the site that morning, and things are relatively calm. He thinks it might have something to do with Cobb not being on the premises, but Arthur will take what he can get. He clutches his coffee and gets to work, ignoring the lingering unease from his dream.

But it’s easier said than done; everywhere he looks, Arthur’s reminded of the images, from the trees lining the distance to the flash of sunlight as the sun peeks through the forest. He can still hear Eames’ voice in his head— _do you believe in destiny?_

Arthur rubs a hand over his face. He wishes he knew what it was about this job, this _month_ , that’s made his concentration go to shit. It didn’t start the day he met Eames...or maybe it did, somehow...

“Um, boss?”

He looks up from the blueprints spread out in front him to find one of his lead construction managers giving him a sheepish look.

“Hey, uh, Mason, right? What’s up?” The guy has twenty years and about a hundred pounds on Arthur. He likes to make the construction guys happy.

“I’m really sorry about this, boss, but there’s...a problem.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. “What is it this time?”

“Oh, nothing like the fire, don’t worry, it’s just—well—”

One of Mason’s guys pops up behind him, wincing. “There’s a horse.”

Arthur goes very still. He swallows once, says carefully, “A...horse?”

Mason sighs. “Yeah, a big one. He just came out of nowhere and stood right in front of the machines. Won’t budge an inch. He’s not hurtin’ anyone, but he’s a giant sucker. He might belong to someone in the area, y’know?”

Time sort of grounds to a halt as Arthur puts down his blueprints. He focuses on breathing, on keeping his thoughts in order and telling himself sternly, _It’s nothing, it’s just a stray horse, it’s nothing at all, you’ll fix this._

“Where’s the horse now?” he asks evenly.

Mason waves his hand toward one of the larger bulldozers facing the tree line. “He was over there a minute ago.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and says, “Show me.”

He expects to feel anxious trepidation, or maybe even resignation as they approach the machines. But instead, Arthur feels a strange sense of inevitably, like he knows what’s waiting for him on the other side of the dozer. It’s the same feeling he gets whenever he’s around Eames.

And before he even lays eyes on the creature, a bright burst of light comes out of nowhere. Arthur shields his eyes, ducks his head as he stumbles back a bit.

“You all right, boss?” Mason asks.

“Yeah, but that light’s really bright.”

“What light?”

“The damn light that’s nearly blinding me, you don’t see it?”

Mason’s frowning at Arthur like he’s grown a third eye. “No, there’s no light. But there’s the horse, right over there.” He jerks his head, and Arthur follows the direction until he finally sees it—a tall, huge horse, bigger than any Arthur’s ever seen in his life, broad-shouldered with a shimmering white coat and a long, glistening mane.

A long, pointed horn adorns the center of its forehead, but that’s not what makes the air rush out of Arthur’s lungs.

It’s the piercing blue eyes that make him lose his breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me—” Arthur starts, lost for words. The horse stares at him, shakes its mane before pawing once at the ground with one giant hoof. “It’s a—a fucking _unicorn_.”

Mason laughs. “Unicorn? I don’t know about that, but it is a huge-ass horse. Where’d you get the unicorn part? I don’t see a horn...”

Arthur flails his hand. “You don’t see the _giant fucking horn_ on its forehead?”

Both Mason and his crewmember shake their heads slowly.

Arthur looks back at the horse, which bows its head at Arthur, and the very tip of the horn in question sparks to life with a bluish glow.

For a moment, Arthur feels as if he’s been caressed.

He staggers back, heart suddenly racing in his chest. “Get it out of here,” he stammers. “Call animal control, whatever, just—just get it off my site.” He takes off at a dead run, with no thought in his head but to get the hell away from there.

What the hell is _happening_ to him?

~

Arthur waits for Eames to call that night. He tells Dom that everything’s fine and that he has nothing to worry about, even though he’s not even remotely close to believing that himself. But it’s fine, because at least he’ll get to see Eames tonight. That’s all he needs.

Nine o’clock comes and no phone call. Then ten o’clock rolls around, and Arthur, exhausted and stressed and suddenly inexplicably lonely, holds his cell in his hand, thumb hovering over Eames’ number on the screen.

He finally puts the phone aside and goes to take a shower.

At ten forty-five, Eames calls. Arthur waits until the third ring to answer.

“Sorry, I know it’s late, but I—”

“No, no, it’s okay, I was just—” Arthur flails his hand at nothing, wincing at his lameness. “I don’t sleep much these days, anyway.”

There’s a long pause before Eames replies, “You don’t?” Funny how Eames sounds like the exhausted one, his voice rough at the edges. Arthur kind of wants to curl up in it.

“It’s...been a long day,” Arthur sighs, sinking into the couch. The living room is dark, no light except the one from the hall way, and if he closes his eyes for a moment he can pretend Eames is beside him, their knees barely touching.

The same rumbling voice goes soft. “What happened?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He swallows hard, then blurts out, “Can you come over? Please?” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, only knows his heart is pounding and he needs this more than anything, even if it’s just Eames on his couch watching Conan with him.

He hears Eames sigh, and thinks for a horrible moment that he’s crossed a line somehow. But then Eames says, “I don’t have your address.”

Arthur laughs awkwardly. “Is that yes?”

There’s a tentative, almost melancholy wistfulness in his voice when Eames finally says, “Yes.”

~

Eames isn’t smiling when Arthur opens the door half an hour later. His expression is cautious, yet oddly vulnerable, and there are dark smudges under his eyes. Arthur’s not the only one not sleeping, apparently.

He leans against the doorway, feeling horribly out of his element for a second. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do this, but I couldn’t—I just...had to see you.” Arthur ducks his head. Jesus, he sounds like a goddamn romance novel.

Eames takes a step forward, and as Arthur raises his eyes, he sees Eames reach out and trail one cool fingertip down Arthur’s cheek. Arthur can’t help but lean into the touch briefly.

“I wasn’t going to come,” Eames says quietly. “But you asked.”

Arthur nods like that makes perfect sense, and in some strange way, it does, somehow. “Do you—are you hungry? I can order pizza, or we can—”

Eames presses a little closer, and the look in his eyes is almost helpless, like he can’t stop himself from cupping his hand gently around the back of Arthur’s neck as he leans in and skims the tip of his nose over Arthur’s temple. He breathes deeply, and Arthur wants to be startled, wants to back away, but he couldn’t even if he tried. Instead, his hands slide over the soft material of Eames’ t-shirt and his fingers dig in, clinging to Eames. When he breathes out against Arthur’s neck, Arthur shivers, tugs him in closer.

“What do you want, Arthur?” Eames whispers, his mouth a warm caress against Arthur’s ear.

Arthur can barely breathe. “I...I want you to stay,” he says, turning his face just enough so that he can bury himself into Eames’ skin, breathe him in.

Eames sighs, and it sounds like both resignation and relief. “Then I’ll stay.”

Arthur shivers again, says, “Thank you,” and Eames’ reply is to nudge Arthur gently back into the apartment.

~

Eames unlocks his front door long past sunrise the next morning, tired and rumpled and smelling a little like Arthur’s aftershave. He’d left Arthur asleep on his couch with a blanket tucked around him, his mobile set to go off in a couple of hours; sleep or not, Arthur couldn’t afford to be late for work today.

He sighs heavily as the door closes behind him, leans his forehead against it and tries not to think about how hard it was to leave, how easy it would’ve been just to stay in that apartment with Arthur wrapped around him on the couch, his head tucked up under Eames’ chin, their legs tangled together as they half-watched an old Woody Allen movie. Arthur had dozed on and off, and Eames let his fingertips slip up and down the bumps of Arthur’s spine, counting each one and memorizing the feel.

And now he’s supposed to thwart Arthur’s job once more. The thought of having Arthur look at him, _really_ look at him, with something akin to fear and disbelief, makes Eames’ stomach turn cold.

“I can’t bloody do this,” he whispers, shoulders sagging.

“Where have you been all night?”

Eames startles, eyes flying open to find Ariadne standing in his foyer, looking tense and worried. “Nowhere,” he mumbles as he rubs a hand over his face.

Ariadne shakes her head. “You didn’t—you didn’t actually—” She flails her hand, bites her lip.

“Didn’t what?”

“You know, like...take Arthur’s virtue.” She almost whispers the words.

Eames snorts loudly. “No, I can safely say I did not.” There had been gentle kisses on the couch, though; careful, searching kisses, with Arthur’s hands trailing over Eames’ body like he’d never touched another person before. Things grew deeper, more urgent, but eventually Arthur had pulled back, mouth swollen and cheeks flushed, and said breathlessly, “I don’t—it’s not that I don’t want to, tonight, I just...I need it slow. I’m sorry.”

Eames’ chest clenched tightly, and he’d kissed Arthur’s chin, his jaw, wanting more than anything in the world to curl himself around Arthur forever. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me,” he breathed. “We’ll take things as slowly as you like. I’m in no hurry.” And it scared the shit out of him how much he meant those words. He’d basically admitted they were...something, and it felt. It felt—

_Right._

He’s shaken from his thoughts by Ariadne hugging him, hard. Eames can’t really remember the last time he was hugged so fiercely.

“Remember what you always tell us? How you should never ignore your heart if it’s speaking louder than your mind? Maybe you should follow your own advice for a change.”

Eames rests his chin on top of her hair, arms sliding around her tiny shoulders. “My heart isn’t exactly telling me to do the right thing here, darling. I can’t trust it to help me make the logical decision.”

“You don’t have to worry about us, Eames. Everything will be fine. You deserve to follow your destiny, to be in love.”

“Of course I bloody well have to worry, it’s my _duty_ to worry about this place!”

She shakes her head. “I think I know why this was predicted. It wasn’t because we were supposed to brace ourselves to have our home destroyed; it’s because we predicted you’d fall in love.”

Eames closes his eyes, remembering the way Arthur had simply melted against him, full of trust, the desperate tone of his voice when he’d asked Eames to come over, and the intense, magnetic pull Eames had felt instantly when he’d heard those words, followed by _please_. He remembers this all at the same time the image of Arthur’s horror-stricken face upon seeing Eames in his true form flashes through his mind.

“It’ll never work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I tried—I don’t know why I did, but I, I went to the site and let myself turn, and I told myself it was just a distraction for the crew, but deep down I just wanted to know how Arthur would react, if he’d—fuck, I was so stupid. He ran away, Ari. He looked at me and went pale.”

Ariadne huffs into Eames’ chest, then looks up, mouth in a firm line. “Well, yeah, duh, he’d seen a goddamn unicorn in his construction site, what _else_ was he supposed to do?”

“Ari—”

“No, this is ridiculous. You don’t just show yourself to a human out of context and expect him to react _positively_. Jesus, Eames, you’ve been magical for _how long_? You know this.”

He can feel himself flushing in frustration. “This is different.”

“It’s not. I guarantee you, if you just tell Arthur the truth, in a controlled setting, he won’t run away.”

“And what about our home?”

“Just...take a leap of faith, Eames. Everything happens for a reason.” Then she smiles ruefully. “Plus, I saw Miles wandering around yesterday in his socks. He never does that when there’s eminent danger.”

He laughs weakly. “You do have a point.” Eames kisses her lightly on the forehead, and Ariadne replies, “‘Course I do, I’m your favorite fairy.”

~

When Eames wakes up later that afternoon, the sky is dark with thunderclouds. Within the hour, hard, heavy rain starts smattering against the windows. He gets up, trudges blearily to the kitchen window.

The construction site is empty, not a person in sight.

A streak of lighting cuts across the sky, and Eames wonders for a moment if maybe Miles didn’t have something to do with this after all.

~

Rain is the absolute last thing Arthur needs right now, but at least he can’t be blamed for it. Work grinds to a halt, and Arthur uses the break as an excuse to lock himself in his office under a mountain of paperwork.

He goes almost an hour before his thoughts drift to Eames, which is a new record. In the last twenty-four hours, he’s barely gone more than thirty minutes. It’s ridiculous, really; he tells himself over and over that he barely knows this guy, that there’s absolutely no reason to feel this, this _gone_. Arthur has always—until now—believed that love was, among other things, a decision, like moving for your career or buying a new home. You fell in love when you examined all the angles and knew the time was right.

But this was a guy he’d spilt coffee on a week earlier, a guy he’d had lunch with and unloaded little details about himself he hadn’t told anyone before, a guy he’d _begged to come to his apartment_ just to cuddle together on the couch when Arthur got too fucking nervous to take things further. Because yes, he’s almost twenty-six, and most guys his age wouldn’t think twice about dry-humping in the bluish glow from the TV. But Arthur would rather not have the conversation about why he can’t quite get his shit together enough to give a guy a handjob.

Arthur has two separate graduate degrees, and yet he’s never so much as had someone’s hands down his pants. It’s never really bothered him until now. Until Eames came along.

A week wasn’t enough time to decide things like romance and sex. And yet...

“Fuck,” Arthur mutters, throwing his pen down on his desk. He’s hopeless. His job’s unraveling at the seams, and all he can think about is the feel of Eames’ mouth nudging soft kisses up his neck, laughing softly whenever he’d find a secret ticklish spot and Arthur would flinch, his broad hands splayed across Arthur’s back, warm and wide and _safe_. And that, more than anything, was how Arthur felt with Eames—protected.

Christ, it’s like he’s living in a Victorian novel or something. He seriously needs to get a grip.

Arthur contemplates braving the rain for a much-needed coffee when Dom knocks on his office door, looking way too serious for Arthur’s comfort.

“Do you have a minute?” Dom asks, taking a seat across from his desk. Arthur’s heart immediately picks up speed.

“Sure. What’s up?” He hopes his voice sounds even enough.

Dom taps his fingers on his knee, then says, “I’m thinking the Abbigrail project just isn’t the right fit for you right now. Which is totally understandable, and I’m not blaming you for anything—I just think I might have put too much on your plate for your first time out. I should probably apologize for that. I overwhelmed you.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. “No, you didn’t, I can handle it, I just need more time to—”

“It’s fine, Arthur, don’t take it personally. Besides, I think you’ll like the alternative I’m going to offer you.” He pulls a boarding pass out of his jacket and slides it across the desk. “Paris, first class. I’m sending you over there to scout a new site for a corporate building. Ford Motors is looking to expand, and they want us to design their new European offices.”

He stares at the ticket. “Holy shit,” Arthur breathes.

Dom laughs. “Right? So, you still want to stick around here and mess with excavating a forest?”

It’s a huge opportunity, tied to an even bigger client. There were thousands of guys in Arthur’s position who would kill for this chance.

And yet, he can’t make himself feel the giddy anticipation he knows this moment deserves. He can’t feel anything except a strange sense of loss.

“When do I leave?” he asks.

“Friday morning, bright and early. You’ll be out for about a month, give or take a few days.”

“And the Abbigrail project?”

Dom waves his hand. “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. You’ve got bigger fish to fry now.” He grins, leaning across the desk to slap Arthur on the shoulder. “C’mon, think of this as a promotion of sorts! Most guys work here a couple years before they get sent out first class.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. All he can think is, _Four days left with Eames._ Will it even matter? Will Eames still want him after a month?

He forces a smile, says, “Thanks, Dom. This is really awesome, and I swear I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, and you haven’t, honestly. I’ve been hard on you, but you’ve held up very well. But I think you’ll be happier in Paris.”

As Dom leaves his office, Arthur slumps back in his chair, wondering what being happy even means anymore.

~

Eames makes a half-hearted attempt to distract himself with work. He goes to his weekly appointment with a fox named Doyle, who has anxiety issues; Eames had been avoiding the meeting because he knew the impending construction wouldn’t be doing much for Doyle’s nerves.

But Eames manages to sit in the fox’s house and listen to him babble on about the end of the world, which...wasn’t far from their usual conversation. The only difference now was that Eames only half listens, nodding when he needs to. He can’t stop thinking about the fact that Arthur hasn’t spoken to him in over two days. It’s not that Eames isn’t completely to blame, but he wants to respect Arthur’s wishes and take things slow, and that means letting Arthur make the next move, no matter how much Eames is dying to call him.

“...And now there’s all this _rain_ , and it’s like, how am I supposed to get around when there’s five feet of mud everywhere? It’s barely Spring!” Doyle flails his paws everywhere, and Eames nods vaguely.

“Yeah, ‘s terrible, quite awful,” he mumbles.

Doyle pauses, narrows his beady black eyes at Eames. “‘It’s terrible’? Hello, you’re my life coach, you’re supposed to tell me I’m overreacting.”

“Right, and you are. The rain will stop soon enough and the mud will dry up and Daylight Saving will make everything better.”

“That’s not—wait.” The fox snaps his fingers. “Is this about that human you’re in love with?”

Eames snaps to attention. “What? How do you—how is that—?”

Doyle shrugs. “Everyone knows about it. The guy heading the construction site, right? Why else do you think I’m stressed out over the rain and not my house getting pulverized?”

Eames just blinks at him, a loss for words and an embarrassing flush spreading over his cheeks.

His mobile rings, saving him the effort of explaining himself.

It’s Arthur’s number.

He turns his back to Doyle, clears his throat, then answers politely, “Eames here.”

“Hey.” Just one simple word, but there’s so much affection there, like they’ve been calling one another for ages.

Eames feels himself grow warm all over. He scratches a hand over the top of his head, lowers his voice and replies, “Hey.”

“I, um. Are you busy right now?”

 _Why haven’t you rung me in two days?_ Eames wants to ask. Instead, he says, “I’m, ah—I’m with a client right now, but I’ll be—”

“No, no, we’re cool, promise!” Doyle calls. “My session can wait if my unicorn’s needing time with his love.”

Eames tries to kick Doyle. Hard.

On the other end, Arthur pauses. “Did he just—am I interrupting something?”

“ _No_ ,” Eames hisses, glaring at the fox. “We were just finishing up. Do you want me to come over?”

“How ‘bout I meet you at the coffee shop?”

Eames goes still. Something’s not right in Arthur’s voice. “Yeah, all right. I’ll see you in twenty minutes?”

When he hangs up, Doyle is looking at him with a lopsided grin on his face.

“So I take it he’s okay with the whole...unicorn thing?” Doyle asks, bushy tail twitching.

Eames sighs heavily and leaves. He doesn’t bother to reschedule their appointment.

~

He finds Arthur sitting alone at a table in the corner, frowning down at his Blackberry. His collar is open, tie gone, his sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm. Arthur looks tired and worn, years beyond twenty-five, even with his dark hair falling in his eyes and curling slightly at the tips.

Eames’ chest tightens so hard he can barely breathe.

“No coffee, then?” he asks as light-hearted as possible, and Arthur jumps, glancing up.

The smile he gives Eames is instant. “I was waiting for you,” he replies.

“Or more likely, you were waiting for me to pick up the tab.”

Arthur laughs, the exhaustion fading a bit from his eyes. “Guilty as charged.”

Eames rolls his eyes, but promptly goes to order them two cups. He can still sense that there is something off about Arthur, something sad and resigned.

When he comes back with the coffee, Arthur holds the cup in both hands, staring down into its contents as the steam rises. His earlier humor seems to have vanished.

Eames waits for as long as he can, then says, roughly, “Is everything all right?”

Arthur sets the cup down, head still bowed. “The other night, when you came over...that meant a lot to me. I wanted you to know that. You didn’t have to come, but you did, and that’s more than anyone’s ever done for me.”

He has no idea where Arthur’s going with this, and it makes Eames’ heart beat faster. “It was my pleasure, Arthur,” he replies quietly.

“Are you—what are we even doing?” Arthur asks abruptly. He looks up at Eames, a miserable pinch above his eyes, like this is a question that’s just been fighting its way out of him for days.

Eames swallows. “We’re having coffee, love,” he says.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Are we—is this—fuck.” Arthur closes his eyes, a twitch in his jaw. “I’m leaving for Paris in two days. For a month, maybe longer.”

The rapid pounding of Eames’ heart stops altogether. “What? But—Abbigrail Forest, the construction, aren’t you—”

“My boss pulled me off the project. He’s sending me to Paris to scout a new building site. It’s better for me, anyway.” Arthur sounds as if he’s repeating a line verbatim, read from a cue card.

Eames sits back in his chair, utterly stunned. This isn’t how things were supposed to go. Now someone else was going to take over the excavation site and Eames would be left to figure out a whole new plan.

And Arthur would be gone, thousands of miles away. Just like that.

This isn’t how destiny works.

“Are you happy with this?” Eames asks.

Arthur barks out a laugh, sharp and ugly. “If you’d put me in this scenario two weeks ago, I would’ve said hell yes, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. All the years in school, the sacrifices, all of it has brought me to this point. I should be fucking _ecstatic_. But all I can think about is how none of this even matters to me anymore, because I won’t have you.” He shakes his head, and then adds in a breathless rush, “I think I’m in—in love with you, and I can’t explain it, it’s not logical, but I am. I feel like I’ve waited for you my whole life.”

Eames blinks, all the air rushing out of his lungs. He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

Then he feels the center of his forehead start to warm, a distinct spot right between his eyes.

 _Destiny_ , Eames thinks, swallowing against an overwhelming fear he’s never known before now. But Miles was right; they were both meant for this moment.

“Arthur,” he says in a soft, low voice. It’s less like his human voice and closer to his true tone. “There’s something you should know.”

Arthur meets his eyes, and he must see it, the bright point of light over Eames’ eyes, because his expression immediately changes to one of utter disbelief.

“Eames, what—you’re—”

“Can I show you something?” Eames gets to his feet, holds his hand out to Arthur. His skin is tingly all over, warm sparks of sensation; once he starts to turn, it’s hard for him to stop it. He knows no one else around them will see the change happen, but he doesn’t want Arthur to witness it in a coffee shop.

For a moment, Arthur looks frozen with indecision, his eyes wide, mouth open in shock. But slowly, as if warring against everything else inside him, he slides his hand into Eames’.

With a bright flash of light, they disappear.

Arthur screams.

~

There’s nothing but light everywhere. Arthur’s heart is racing as he gulps air into his lungs and tries to get a grip. This isn’t real, it can’t be, it’s just like his dream, and dreams _aren’t real_.

He holds his hand out, squinting in the glaring whiteness, until gradually the light begins to fade and his surroundings take shape. Trees, grass, flowers...

He’s in Abbigrail Forest. Arthur doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so certain, he just knows.

“Hello?” he calls, turning in a full circle. The forest is quiet, the leaves rustling carefully in the breeze.

And then, almost naturally, a deep, soft, soothing voice says, “Look over your shoulder.”

Arthur whirls around to find himself face to face with the magnificent horse from before. No, not a horse—a _unicorn_ , its horn glinting in the sunlight. It shakes its mane, then bows to Arthur, blue eyes intense and watching him.

He takes a step back, sweat breaking out on his palms. “What—who said that? I can’t possibly be—”

“Arthur,” the voice says, and it’s achingly familiar, wrapped in a lovely English accent. He stares at the unicorn, who tilts its head to one side and... _smiles at him_.

Arthur nearly falls over. “H-how are you talking to me? What the fuck is this?”

“You can hear me in your mind,” the unicorn-who-sounds-disturbingly-like-Eames replies. “Not many humans can, not when I’m in my true form.”

Oh god, he’s finally completely lost his shit. Arthur cups both hands over his face and groans, “Fuck, I’m dreaming, right? This isn’t real. I’ve been too stressed out, and now I’m thinking of that horse from the site and—and linking it to _Eames_ , I just. I need.” He looks around frantically, then decides to make a run for it. He takes off without another thought, only the horse cuts him off easily, blocking his path. Arthur wheels around in the other direction, but a massive white body heads him off at every turn.

“What do you want from me?” Arthur finally yells. “Just wake me up and get it over with!”

The horse (god, _unicorn_ ) shakes its head slowly, then takes careful steps toward Arthur, until only a few inches separate them. Arthur holds his breath, shaking, unable to look away from searching eyes.

“You’re not dreaming, Arthur, not this time.” The words seem to melt around him, like a warm blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. All the fear and frustration inside Arthur shifts into something else, something more like anticipation.

The unicorn nudges its nose against Arthur’s cheek, and its gentle, sweet. “It’s me, here,” the voice says. “It’s Eames.”

Arthur huffs out a breath, laughing shakily. “That’s not possible. None of this is possible.” But he can’t make himself pull away; an overwhelming urge to splay his hand over the smooth white coat hits him in the chest, making Arthur gasp and shut his eyes. “This can’t be happening.”

“It can and it is. There’s a reason you’re so drawn to me, and I feel the same way, since the moment you ran into me at the coffee shop. This is destiny—you were meant for me.”

“Meant for you?” Arthur forces himself to pull back. “You’re a—a fucking—god, I don’t even know what to call you. Are you even human?”

The unicorn— _Eames_ —shakes his head. “No. I haven’t been for over three hundred years. I was once, though, before a wizard turned me and—”

“A wizard turned you. Of course. So you’re a _were-unicorn_ , is that what I’m understanding here?”

“That’s simplifying things quite a bit, but...yes. Although, I do tend to stay in my human form more often than not. It’s easier that way.”

“Oh, really.” Arthur feels an angry heat flood his cheeks. “Easier to just run around and make us poor lowly mortals fall in love with you? What, were you slumming it with me or something?”

Eames sighs. “Of course not.”

“This is about the Abbigrail project, isn’t it? You were trying to use me to stop the excavation, weren’t you?”

There’s another bright flash, and Eames is standing before him again in his human form, dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans. “Arthur, let me explain—”

“Jesus Christ, who _are you_ , Eames? How long were you just going to let me think that you—that we—” God, he feels so stupid. Out of all the guys to fall for, he picks the were-unicorn.

Eames grabs him by the arm, not hard at all, but with enough force to pull Arthur close. Arthur refuses to gasp, refuses to shiver at the heat from Eames’ touch, because _it’s not real_. He’s not even human.

“All right, yes, initially I sought you out to convince you to stop the project. This forest is more than my home, I’m its protector. That’s what I _do_ , Arthur—protect things. And I had every intention of somehow convincing you to leave this forest alone, only—”

“Only you took pity on a poor guy having the shittiest week of his life, right?” Arthur sneers, hating the way his voice catches. “You figured all I needed was a few heart-to-hearts and a night on my couch and I’d fold like a deck of cards.”

“ _No_ ,” Eames hisses, shoving forward until they’re almost nose to nose. “It was never like that, ever. You’re—you’re amazing, Arthur. In all my life, I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you. You said so in the coffee shop—it’s like you’ve waited your whole life for me. Well, so have I. Maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s fate, or both, fuck it, I don’t care, but I brought you here to show you the truth. This is who I am, and when I look at you, all I want in the entire world is to keep you safe. This forest, none of it matters to me if I can’t be with you.”

Arthur shakes his head. “If it’s magic, how do I know this is real? How do I know _any_ of this is real? Maybe you’re just fucking with my head with your, your unicorn magic, or whatever. I shouldn’t even be in love with you, I don’t even _know you_.”

Eames reaches a hand up to touch Arthur’s cheek, but Arthur flinches away. A stricken look flashes across his face, but Eames says softly, “I know you’re a virgin, Arthur.”

His stomach gives an ugly clench. “That’s none of your damn—”

“I know because virgins are drawn to me, but certain ones, the rare ones—those who are earnest and pure of heart—they’re drawn to me the most.”

“I’m not—I’m not pure of heart, Eames. I’m not anything, and we’re not living in a romance novel.”

“You’re special, though. I see it every time I look at you. In all the years I’ve protected this forest, no one has made me want to give it all up just for a smile.” Eames flushes, ducks his head, and it would be unbearably adorable if Arthur didn’t want to punch him.

“So you knew I’d ask you to take things slow that night in my apartment.”

Eames rubs the back of his neck. “I might have had some inkling, yes.”

“And if I’d agreed to stop the Abbigrail project?”

“Things got blurred around the edges. They told me it was more important to follow my destiny.”

_“‘They’?”_

“Well...the fairies. And a wizard. And possibly a fox.”

Arthur shoves a hand angrily through his hair, teeth clenched. “So this was never about me. It was all about you and your precious forest and your precious _destiny_.” His hands are starting to shake.

“Fuck, don’t you get it? _You’re_ my destiny! Everything that’s happened between us has happened for a reason! It’s not about me, it’s about _us_ , don’t you see that? I’m in love with you, Arthur—me, Eames, a three-hundred-year-old were-unicorn who was once a lonely farmer in England. I didn’t even believe in love, not until I met you. And I’ve certainly never brought a human back to the forest only to turn before their eyes.”

Arthur’s chest feels too tight. His breathing has turned into small gasps. “I don’t believe you.”

Eames’ shoulders slump. “Arthur, please—”

“Let me go. I can’t—I can’t think here. It’s too much. I have to go pack for Paris, anyway.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to leave?”

He folds his arms across his chest, not meeting Eames’ eyes. “I have to go pack,” he whispers.

Arthur can see Eames’ throat bob as he swallows, and his hands twitch at his sides. But he doesn’t touch Arthur, doesn’t say anything else besides, “All right. Whatever you wish.”

And just like before, there is a bright, fierce flash of light, and Arthur finds himself standing in the coffee shop once more. Alone.

~

Arthur goes to Paris, and the city is everything he thought it would be: beautiful, sprawling, drenched in history. He’s given a tour by one of the Ford product management directors, and on the second night, over a five-star, four-course dinner, Arthur is asked to outline his thoughts and plans for the new building. It’s possibly the most important moment of Arthur’s career.

He barely appreciates it, because all he can think about is Eames’ wrecked expression, and the way he had said _please_ just before Arthur had left him behind.

But the job goes on. Within a couple of weeks, Arthur finds the perfect spot to build the new state-of-the-art corporate building, sends dozens of pictures to Dom, and the directors couldn’t be happier with him. Soon there’s talk about bringing Arthur onto the project permanently—as in Arthur moving to Paris.

“If they love you that much, who am I to argue with them?” Dom says proudly over the phone. “It’s your call, Arthur. I’ll gladly foot the bill to get you a flat and a French maid.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s had a migraine since the day before. “I’ll think about it. How’s...the Abbigrail project?”

“Jesus, you’re still thinking about that?”

“I just want to know how it’s going, is all.” Arthur stares across the room at nothing, the words _I didn’t even believe in love, not until I met you_ playing over and over in his head.

“It’s not going at all, actually—it wasn’t you, Arthur, that project was doomed from the start. About a week or so ago, it was brought to my attention that the forest is apparently home to some extremely endangered species of birds. By law, we can’t touch it.”

Arthur goes very still. “But—why was this never discovered in the planning stages?”

“I have no idea. Apparently it’s a fairly new discovery; the timing was probably off, and no one thought to check. I’m just glad it was brought up before I got charged a couple million dollars by the government.” Dom laughs, and Arthur can’t think of a single response.

Abbigrail Forest is safe. And all it took was a simple loophole.

Unless...

“Arthur? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” He clears his throat, then fumbles for his laptop. “I’ll call you back tomorrow, all right?”

“Sure. And congrats again on a great showing over there. You’ve made me and this company proud.”

Arthur shuts his eyes. “Thanks, Dom,” he replies, adding silently to himself, _but I’m probably going to have to quit._

He hangs up, logging onto the first travel site he can think of to buy a one-way ticket home.

~

“It’s over.”

“Of course it’s not, stop being so bloody melodramatic.” Yusuf leans back in his chair and takes a lazy drag on his cigar. He lets the smoke puff neatly out between his pursed lips and smiles at Eames. “It’s been, what, three weeks?”

“He’s in _Paris_ , all right? He left without so much as looking back.” To say nothing of the fact that he despises me, Eames thinks morosely, turning his tumbler of whiskey around on the kitchen table. He so rarely drinks, but then, Yusuf so rarely comes out of hibernation this close to spring. He tells himself it’s just for the occasion of having a good friend over.

Yusuf rolls his cigar back and forth between his fingers thoughtfully. “Honestly, Eames, how did you expect him to react to the knowledge that you’re, well—less than completely human?”

“I don’t know,” Eames replies truthfully. “I wasn’t thinking, I only wanted him to know that...I wanted him to _know_.”

“Because you thought it would make him stay?”

“No. Maybe. Fuck, I have no fucking idea.” Eames tips his head back, downs the rest of the whiskey. Fuck this love business. It could go to hell right along with destiny. All of it was a crock.

“Oh please, it’s not a crock,” Yusuf drawls, deciding at the most annoying moment to use his dragon telepathy. “By the way, funny how Miles put a stop to that construction business, yeah?”

Eames glowers into his empty tumbler. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I mean, if all along he could have simply conjured a document declaring Abbigrail a home for endangered sparrows, then one has to wonder at the inevitability of you and Arthur somehow—”

“I _said_ I didn’t want to talk about it!” He’s still furious at Miles for fucking _lying_ to him this whole time, although Miles still insists he hadn’t been certain about the “appropriateness” of magic for the situation. There had been a knowing glint in his eyes, however, and Eames decided then and there that he hated all wizards, especially ones who deemed it _appropriate_ to mess with others’ love lives.

Yusuf sighs. “And I thought I was the cynical one.”

“You’ve never been in love,” Eames mutters.

“Ah, I beg to differ. Some day I will tell you about one glorious summer in the Adirondacks some four hundred years ago. Her name was Flora, and she had lovely blue scales...”

“Another time.”

“You know, as a life consultant, you should really be taking a more positive approach to this.”

Eames rolls his eyes, starts to tell Yusuf that he doesn’t need to be lectured on his attitude, thank you very much, only he’s interrupted by a knock at the front door.

Yusuf raises his eyebrows. “Are you expecting company?”

“No.” Something, a small tingle of anticipation, sparks at the back of Eames’ mind, but he ignores it, setting his tumbler in the kitchen sink as he glances out the front window.

There, standing on Eames’ front steps with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder and the most exhausted expression Eames has ever seen, is Arthur.

“Shit,” Eames breathes, heart suddenly in his throat as he grips the edge of the sink.

Naturally, Yusuf comes up behind him to have a look. “Oh! Well, this is an interesting turn of events! I wonder how he found you...”

“No human has ever been to my house,” Eames says, although Yusuf knows damn well humans don’t venture into Abbigrail.

“And what was that you were saying about destiny being a crock of shit?”

Eames levels a glare at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right. I’ll just be going now, give you ample privacy to ravish your virgin.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Eames hisses, grabbing Yusuf by the arm and shoving him back toward his chair. “You’re staying right here, because Arthur isn’t staying.”

Yusuf holds both hands up, smirking. “My mistake. I shall be a fly on the wall.”

Eames squares his shoulders, tries in vain to calm his heart, and finally answers the door.

The relief that sweeps over Arthur’s face is palpable. Eames grips the doorway with white-knuckle force to keep from tugging him into his arms.

“You’re home,” Arthur says quietly, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“How did you find me?” It’s almost comical, how Eames actually believed he could face Arthur again and be indifferent to him.

Arthur ducks his head, fidgets with the strap of his bag. “I asked around.”

“You...asked around?”

“Well. I, um. Started asking every animal I saw if they knew where the unicorn lived. Finally some fox told me where to find your house.”

“Oh.” It had to have been Doyle. Eames will probably never hear the end of this; it’s not every day a human goes traipsing around demanding animals talk to him.

“Can I come in?”

Eames can feel his resolve breaking with every second that ticks by. God, Arthur looks so lost and desperate, and Eames has _missed him_. “What do you want, Arthur?” he asks instead, folding his arms across his chest.

Arthur exhales deeply, his shoulders hunching in, like his whole body is deflating. He sets his messenger bag on the ground, licks over his mouth, then looks up at Eames tired, wide eyes and says, “I wanted to tell you that I believe you.”

“Obviously. You talked to a goddamn fox.” He says the words to keep from going to his knees and burying his face against Arthur’s stomach.

“Not just in _this_ —” Arthur waves his arm around. “—but in—in you. In us.”

Eames presses himself against the doorway. “So a few weeks in Paris was all it took to change your mind?”

“I heard about what happened with the construction. Tell me you didn’t have something to do with that.”

“I didn’t.”

Arthur blinks. “But—”

“You really think I would’ve wasted my time with you if it were as easy as casting a simple bit of magic?” Eames says cruelly, because he’s not letting himself fall again. He can’t, he _won’t_ ; a human isn’t going to hold such power over him. Destiny isn’t real, anyway; if it was, no one would hurt.

Arthur’s face falls. “You don’t mean that.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I was wrong about everything.”

“So what are you saying, you weren’t really in love with me?”

“It’s like you said—we don’t even know each other.” It’s not an answer; Eames can’t bring himself to say the words again, not now.

But that, somehow, makes Arthur’s expression harden. “I’m not the only one who fucked up here,” he says. “You still lied to me.”

“I didn’t _lie_ to you.”

“This whole thing started because _you_ were going to manipulate me!”

“I wasn’t—”

“And then you just, just _kidnap_ me and take me somewhere unknown to tell me you’re a fucking _unicorn_ and that my pre-determined destiny is to fall in love with you. Oh, and you knew all along I was a virgin. Does that about sum it up?”

“First of all, I didn’t kidnap you, and second, I was _trying to be truthful with you!_ ” Eames flails his arms out, but Arthur barely flinches, chin tipped up and determined. Eames has the overwhelming urge to grab him and kiss him until they’re both breathless.

Arthur holds his gaze, jaw twitching, then sighs. “I know,” he says. “But don’t you think maybe you should’ve, I don’t know, eased me into it? Do you even know how fucking terrified I was?”

Eames feels the fight leave him as quickly as it arrived. “It’s not like I do this everyday. I’ve been alone for over three hundred years. My, um, experience with romantic relationships is rusty at best.”

Arthur quirks at eyebrow. “Are you a virgin, too?”

Eames manages a rueful smile. “I said ‘alone,’ not celibate.” It earns him a lovely blush, and what he wants to believe is a slightly jealous frown.

“Look,” Arthur says, shoving a hand through his hair, “I came back because when Dom told me how the Abbigrail project was stopped, I knew you were right. I knew this wasn’t just a coincidence, us finding each other like this, and if magic’s to blame for it, then...okay. I’m okay with that. I just. I’m...” He huffs loudly and looks up at the sky, and the gorgeous blush spreads down his neck and disappears beneath his collar.

“You what?” Eames asks softly, finally taking a step forward, but he keeps his arms tight to his chest, unable to let himself touch Arthur yet.

The moment stretches out between them, quiet and uncertain, until Arthur swallows and says, “Fuck, I’m miserable without you, all right? They were going to offer me a permanent position in Paris. I was going to _live_ there, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t stand the thought of doing something for the rest of my life knowing I’d somehow made a huge mistake. So...I quit.”

It’s the absolute last thing Eames expects him to say. “What?” he says again, completely thrown.

“Do you remember that first real conversation we had? And I asked you how we’re ever supposed to know what we’re meant for in life?”

“Yes...” Eames remembers everything between them.

Arthur stretches his hand out, letting it rest gently against Eames’ chest, fingers splayed above his heart. “This is what I’m meant for,” he whispers. “I’m meant for you. Not a job that consumes my life, just—happiness. And I never realized it until I left.”

Eames doesn’t dare move. “Arthur...”

“I don’t know how this is supposed to work. Fuck, you’re not even—do you guys even _do this_? I’m a human, you’re immortal.”

“There’s not exactly a precedent,” Eames whispers, and slowly, he presses forward, until Arthur’s hand is trapped between their chests. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

Arthur’s eyes drop to Eames’ mouth for the briefest of moments. It hits Eames straight in the gut when he realizes they haven’t kissed in almost a month.

“So you weren’t just wasting your time, then?” Arthur asks, breathless and vulnerable to the point Eames can no longer hold back, he _has_ to touch him.

He brings both hands up, cups Arthur’s warm cheeks in his palms and rests their foreheads together, as if it’s the night in Arthur’s hallway all over again. “Never,” he says, then kisses Arthur like it’s their first kiss again—careful, slow, lips barely parted. Arthur’s hand curls into the front of Eames’ shirt while his other clings to Eames’ forearm, and Eames can’t remember why he ever thought he could give this up, give _Arthur_ up.

“About bloody time!” calls a voice from behind him, followed immediately by applause.

Arthur pulls back abruptly, eyes hazy, mouth slick and pink. “Someone’s still here?” he asks. His voice has already gone husky, and Eames could seriously kill Yusuf right now.

“Sorry, sorry, he’s—um, that’s Yusuf.”

Right on cue, Yusuf pops up over Eames’ shoulder and waggles his fingers at Arthur. “Hello! I’d shake your hand, but it’s obviously otherwise occupied at the moment. It’s wonderful to finally put a face with the name!”

Arthur blinks dazedly. “And what are you, um, if you don’t mind me asking? Another wizard?” He doesn’t take his hands away from Eames, and that fact makes Eames smile.

Yusuf bursts out laughing. “Oh, hardly! Sorry, no, nothing so exotic as that. I’m actually a Norwegian Crested Tassleback.”

Arthur tilts his head at Eames, who adds simply, “Dragon.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, eyes going wide. “Uh, they can...take human form, too?”

“Yeah, because they’re lazy wankers who like to meddle in their mate’s business,” Eames replies pointedly, giving Yusuf the evil eye.

“You wound me, old friend. Whatever, I was just leaving to let you two consummate your epic love. A few hours from now, I’m sure Eames’ house will be seen from space.”

Heat blooms over Eames’ cheeks. “Yes, move along, please,” he hisses, and Yusuf laughs, wiggling his way out the door around Eames and Arthur. He bows his head to Arthur one more time, leaning in close.

“It’s a historical event, you know,” he says in a stage whisper. “A unicorn falling in love only happens once every, oh, thousand years or so? Cheers!”

Arthur gives Eames a look of utter befuddlement. “What did he mean by your house—”

“Never mind,” Eames says quickly, pulling Arthur inside and shutting the door. “He’s going back into hibernation for another few weeks. But I’m sure he’ll let everyone know you’re here before that happens.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

He takes in Arthur’s tousled hair and day-old whiskers smudging the line of his jaw and the way his dark eyes track the movement of Eames’ tongue as he licks over his mouth.

“No, not at all,” Eames breathes, wrapping his arm around Arthur’s waist to tug him back into another kiss.

~

Sex has never been a big deal for Eames. He enjoys it, of course, has had his share of random evenings in the city with pretty-eyed men in clubs who have no interest in where Eames is from or what he does, and Eames has always preferred it that way. It’s always scratching an itch, a release of tension; his partner’s pleasure was a moot point in the end.

But it’s never been Eames’ heart stuttering in his chest, palms damp, and a constant loop of _he’s mine, all mine_ playing over and over in his head. He’s never had this overwhelming urgency to please someone in bed, to make them feel every emotion swirling inside him and know it’s all for them.

He backs Arthur slowly through the bedroom doorway, trading slow, careful kisses as Arthur makes the most gorgeous soft noises, his hands pulling gently at Eames’ shirt. They stumble slightly into the wall by the closet door and Arthur breaks out of the kiss and laughs breathlessly.

“Smooth,” he says, dimples on full display, cheeks flushed bright pink. “You bring all the guys back here?”

Eames, meanwhile, trails his thumb over the creases in Arthur’s cheeks, knocked speechless. “You are so lovely,” he whispers instead, because he can’t help himself.

The humor in Arthur’s eyes fades, replaced by something much more serious. He leans forward, captures Eames’ mouth with his own, hand sliding over Eames’ cheek. Vaguely, Eames thinks there should be more urgency in this kiss, more frantic desperation, but he finds that pressing his weight into Arthur and kissing him, long and thorough, until he knows every facet of his mouth, is enough.

Until Arthur gasps and tips his head back against the wall, his body one long beautiful arch against Eames, and says in a voice a couple octaves deeper than Eames has ever heard it, “I don’t need you to go slow this time. I want everything you can give, on your terms.”

The missing urgency appears suddenly with roaring ferocity. Eames closes his eyes, dizzy with want, mouthing at Arthur’s jaw as the rest of him goes almost painfully hard. “I want to make this good for you.”

“You will, I promise. But I don’t want you to hold back.”

“I’ve never brought anyone back here,” Eames blurts out, and Arthur laughs again.

“I know,” he says, tracing his fingertips over Eames’ eyebrows, his cheekbones. “I just like knowing I can make you nervous.”

Eames smiles at him crookedly, leaning into Arthur’s touch. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers back, and god, he fucking loves this man with all his heart and he’ll fight for him until the end of time.

The thought slams into him like a punch to the gut. Eames bites back the gasp caught in his throat as every inch of his skin grows warm and tingly, but he feels Arthur go stiff.

“Eames,” he whispers, “you’re—you’re glowing.” When Eames forces his eyes open, Arthur is staring at the middle of Eames’ forehead with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Eames reaches up, feels the heat centered there, then glances down at his hands. The edge of his skin has a soft, golden glimmer.

“It’s—it’s a side-effect,” Eames says with a sheepish grin.

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Of what?”

“Of...being truly happy.”

“Does it happen often?”

Eames takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. “So that thing Yusuf said about my house being viewed from space—”

“Jesus, Eames.” Arthur kisses him fiercely, clinging tightly to him. Then he pulls back and gasps, “You really only feel true happiness with me?”

“Well, it’s not quite that simple, but it’s been said that a unicorn’s horn only glows when its happy or in love. I, uh, never had an issue with it until you came along.”

Arthur nudges their noses together, breath growing more and more shallow. “God, this is so dumb, but hearing you talk about destiny and happiness and your stupid fucking horn makes me really, really hot.”

Eames can feel the heat in his forehead flash bright for a second as he laughs. “That’s quite a compliment, indeed.”

“Think you could maybe do something about that?” Arthur arches into him again, wraps his arms around Eames’ neck and lets their hips drag against each other.

“Already so demanding,” Eames replies as he buries his face in the warm curve of Arthur’s neck and groans, hand splaying over Arthur’s hip before slipping lower to cup his ass.

“Hey, you’re my destiny, I can demand all I want.” Arthur’s words die off in a loud gasp as he jerks against Eames and whimpers.

Behind his closed eyes, Eames can still see the glow brighten, and he knows Arthur sees it, too, if his surprised little laugh is anything to go on.

“Is—is that for my ass, or just the general situation?”

Eames growls, “Probably both,” before slotting his leg between Arthur’s thighs.

He keeps forgetting that Arthur isn’t used to this, isn’t used to be touched with heat and purpose, but if Eames thinks on it too long he starts to feel a weird possessive sadness. He’s slightly startled when Arthur soon scrambles at his shoulders and groans, “Wait, _wait_ ,” shuddering and panting, the hard, hot bulge in the front of his jeans pressing against Eames’ own trapped cock.

“Sorry, sorry.” Eames starts to pull away, give Arthur a moment to get himself together, but Arthur shakes his head and holds on, biting kisses up the side of Eames’ neck.

“Can you—can you fuck me here?” he asks in a quiet, almost demure voice, and Eames nearly comes right then and there.

“We shouldn’t—I don’t want you to be—”

“I’m afraid I’ll come if you get me on the bed.”

It takes considerable willpower for Eames not to simply spread Arthur against the wall and get him ready. “We’ll take it slow,” he says, making Arthur groan in frustration.

“ _Fuck_ , why the hell did I choose to be top of my class instead of getting laid every weekend?”

“Because you’re brilliant?” Eames laughs, kissing the corner of Arthur’s mouth before gently untangling their bodies from the wall. “It’s rather commendable.”

“I don’t think that’s the word I’d use,” Arthur says, reaches back and grabs the neck of his t-shirt to yank it over his head. It tousles his hair, static sending ends sticking straight into the air, and he looks utterly adorable. And unbearably sexy.

Eames’ brain is so busy processing all the bared skin that he initially misses Arthur’s whispered, “Your turn,” as his hands pull at the hem of Eames’ shirt. Eames blinks, then strips quickly in order to get his mouth on the gorgeous line of Arthur’s collarbone. He wants to spend _hours_ learning the lines of Arthur’s body with his tongue, until he can see them in his sleep.

Only he doesn’t count on Arthur’s strangled groan just before he splays his hands over Eames’ chest, or the way he looks at Eames like he wants to devour him with his eyes, or the way he slowly and deliberately _drops to his knees._

“Can I?” Arthur asks, nosing at Eames’ fly. He looks up at Eames with dark, dark eyes, mouth wet and pink and swollen. “I—I want to taste you. I want to know what it’s like.”

It’s Eames’ turn to be the one to shudder. “Arthur, you don’t have to, really—”

“No, I want to. God, you’re so—so _perfect_ , I just—I have to—” He moans, eyes fluttering shut as he mouths at Eames’ cock through his jeans, like he can’t help himself.

“All right, all right, shit—” Eames paws frantically at his fly, because he’s not going to come in his jeans, at least not without getting Arthur’s mouth on him. He shoves his pants and underwear down his legs, but Arthur doesn’t waste any time; he leans in, without any hesitation, and licks the wetness gathered at the tip, fingers coasting along the base of Eames like he’s a precious artifact.

Eames’ cock twitches sharply and he hisses. He wants to watch, but there’s only so much he can take of Arthur shirtless and on his knees at Eames’ feet, thighs spread and his erection painfully obvious. He licks at Eames again, humming to himself.

“Is this good? Am I—”

“ _Fuck_ , Arthur, _yes_.” Eames slams his eyes closed, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder. He hears a soft little chuckle just before he’s engulfed in wet heat, the head of his cock slipping gradually into Arthur’s mouth. He counts backwards from twenty, telling himself he’ll give Arthur all the time he wants, although really, who’s the virgin here?

Eames gets down to five, then starts to feel heat blooming low in his belly. “Arthur, stop, I’m gonna—”

Arthur pulls of with a filthy _pop_. “Really?” He’s beaming once Eames forces his eyes open again, and if Eames weren’t so close, he’d melt a little at the outright endearing pleasure written all over Arthur’s flushed face.

“Yes, really, now can we please move this to the bed?”

He decides right then and there that the most erotic sight in the world is a happy, confident, aroused Arthur gliding smoothly to his feet, his mouth quirked in a satisfied smirk. “Yeah, we can do that,” he murmurs, nipping at Eames’ lower lip.

Eames bites at Arthur’s mouth in return, says, “Get naked first.”

His eyes flick away in a moment of shyness, but Arthur quickly unbuttons his jeans and kicks them off with his boxers, shoes and socks. He stands at the end of the bed, completely bare and open and vulnerable, his body wiry, lithe, and whip-solid, hands clenching in and out of nervous fists at his side.

Eames swallows thickly, splays his palm over the center of Arthur’s chest, and pushes gently, sending Arthur tumbling down onto the bed. He follows after him, caging his body against the covers, and they hold each other’s gaze for a moment, their breathing suddenly too loud in the quiet room.

“You ready?” Eames whispers, brushes their mouths together.

“Don’t go easy on me, I can take it,” Arthur says against Eames’ lips. His fingers trace idle patterns over Eames’ stomach.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

The glow of Eames’ skin flares momentarily, making Arthur grin. “Should I get sunglasses?”

“Shut up,” Eames says, laughing softly as he nudges his nose against Arthur’s and reaches, one-handed, for the nightstand beside the bed. There’s a small bottle of lube in the top drawer—not because Eames has had lots of sex in his bedroom, but because Yusuf thinks he’s damn funny sometimes. It’s even cherry flavored.

He tries to be inconspicuous as he coats his fingers, hiding the stupid pink bottle from Arthur’s sight, only Arthur drawls, “Cherry, really?” and Eames winces.

“Would you believe me if I said it’s Yusuf’s fault?”

“Actually, yeah, I would.” Then Arthur bites his lip, tilts his head back against the bed. “You can probably start with two,” he adds in a whisper.

Eames drops the bottle on the floor. “But—I thought you were—?”

“Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I haven’t tried it myself, Eames. Sorry to burst your bubble.” He smiles, but it’s an anxious twitch of his lips, and his eyes keep darting to Eames’ fingers. He’s also a little less hard than he was earlier, and Eames thinks, No, we can’t have that.

“Fine, I’ll use two, but you’ll tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

“Goddamn it, just fucking—”

Eames leans over him then, parts Arthur’s lips with a deep, wet slide of his tongue as he simultaneously pushes two slicked fingers into his arse. Arthur gasps into his mouth, shudders stiffly, one hand curling tightly around Eames’ bicep, and Eames shushes him, “Easy, easy, it’s all right, I’ve got you...”

He slides in to his second knuckle and holds it still, letting Arthur feel the stretch. Arthur’s breathing comes in short, uneven bursts against Eames’ chin.

“Breathe, love, tell me how you feel.”

“Move,” Arthur says in a low, rumbling voice, both a command and a plea. His eyes are squeezed shut, a tight pinch above the bridge of his nose.

Eames pulls out slowly, twists his hand just so, and finally Arthur’s mouth falls open on a long, breathless moan. As Eames thrusts back inside, Arthur gasps, “God, I need—fuck—”

“Push your hips against me,” Eames says, lost in the pink flush spreading down Arthur’s neck and chest. There is nothing he wants more in this world than to make Arthur come apart for him.

Arthur licks his lips, eyes fluttering open to meet Eames’ gaze, and after a careful pause he arches off the bed and rolls his hips down, fucking himself onto Eames’ fingers. Within seconds, his cock fills to full hardness, and Eames feels overwhelming proud.

“Can you take three?”

“ _Yes_ , oh god, please...”

Eames isn’t quite as smooth as he would like, fumbling for the pink bottle on the floor, but he manages to grab it without taking his fingers away from Arthur’s body. He slicks his entire hand in pink, cherry-scented lube, splattering the comforter. A third finger slides in easily beside his other two, and Arthur’s hips snap up.

Pink lube be damned, Eames could do this all night long.

Or at least until Arthur shifts restlessly against the bed, his red, swollen cock bobbing wetly against his stomach as he grinds down on Eames’ hand in frustration. “Eames, c’mon, I—want to—please—”

He crooks his fingertips, pushing in just enough to hit that spot just right, and Arthur dissolves into a series of filthy, gorgeous sounds. “What do you want?” Eames asks, kissing him rather chastely on the mouth, too greedy for the noises Arthur’s making to kiss him properly.

“Want—want you inside me, Eames, not—not your fingers.”

“What do you want instead of my fingers?”

Arthur swallows, grits his teeth against the words he can’t quite say, or maybe doesn’t know how to say. But finally he looks up at Eames from beneath his lashes and says softly, “I want your cock. I—I want you to fuck me.” The blush flares over his chest, and there’s a hint of apprehension in his eyes, like he’s done something wrong.

He doesn’t even know how right he is now, or how he’d never get any of this wrong, even if he tried.

Eames pulls his fingers free, kisses Arthur slow and steady, letting Arthur control the tempo as he fits a pillow under Arthur’s hips. He splays a hand over Arthur’s thigh, thumb coasting back and forth over the smooth bend at Arthur’s knee.

“This is going to sound ridiculous, but...I promise you I’m clean. I’m, ah—magical and all that, so, uh—no disease or anything like that. Also, not really human, so.” Eames says the words in a rush, feeling horribly awkward. Normally he just wears a condom regardless, since it’s not as if he’s going to explain the whole unicorn thing to a random one-night stand.

But this is Arthur, and Eames doesn’t want a thing between them.

“God, am I technically committing bestiality?” Arthur says with a breathless laugh, and Eames’ heart practically swells to bursting when he feels a leg already wrapping itself around his waist.

“Well— _technically_ I am still part human. Ish. Um—”

“Just shut up and fuck me, Unicorn Man.” Arthur grins at him, a gloriously bright, contented smile in the midst of all his nervousness and uncertainty. He traces his fingers over Eames’ lower lip, and Eames fucking _loves him_.

The room is bathed in soft, glowing light, every inch of Eames’ skin sparkling gold at the edges. “Have I mentioned how much I want you right now?” he whispers as he readies himself, strokes his slick hand over his cock without taking his eyes off Arthur.

Arthur, however, doesn’t take his eyes off Eames’ hand. “Yeah, maybe,” he whispers back, a loud huff of air escaping him when tugs at the head, just to show off.

“You’re going to feel fucking amazing,” Eames says in a low growl, then holds on tight to Arthur’s leg, pushes his other knee forward, and slides home in one smooth thrust.

Their mouths meet as Eames pushes inside, and they swallow each other’s groans. Eames was right—Arthur is all tight, unforgiving heat surrounding, perfect in every way, but more than that, he feels like everything Eames has been missing for all these hundreds of years. He feels _right_.

Eames doesn’t have to coax Arthur into a rhythm this time. Instinctively, Arthur meets each thrust, shoulders shaking, the initial shock from Eames breaching his body fading as he relaxes into it, holds onto Eames’ arms braced at his sides. Eames can’t stop kissing him, can’t stop licking every sound from Arthur’s mouth, wanting to sink into him, feel him from every angle. Arthur’s cock is trapped between their stomachs, slipping against their skin, but Eames doesn’t touch him. He knows Arthur doesn’t need it, not this time.

It doesn’t take long before Arthur gasps and shivers, whimpering into each kiss as he clutches at Eames. “I’m gonna—gonna—”

“Yeah,” Eames breathes, scrapes his teeth over Arthur’s lip. “I know. I’m close, too. Can you wait for me?”

“I don’t—I—Eames, _god_ —”

“Please, love, just wait for me, come with me.” He snaps his hips faster, spreads Arthur’s thighs to keep him open, getting as deep as he can. Eames knows he’s being selfish, that he can’t expect Arthur to last on his first time, but he wants this so badly he can taste it. He fucks into him harder, and just as Arthur clenches so beautifully around him, Arthur cries out Eames’ name helplessly and comes.

Eames is right there with him, mouth open and gasping against Arthur’s cheek as the room explodes with light, but Eames doubts Arthur notices. His eyes are closed, hair wet and sticking in sweaty threads across his forehead as he pants into the covers, totally boneless beneath Eames.

“Still with me?” Eames asks after a moment, placing a small kiss to Arthur’s temple.

Arthur mumbles something unintelligible and smiles.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be able to drag you to the shower right away.”

Another mumbled response, then, “Just give me a second, all right? I just had magical fucking sex for the first time, I’m a little beat.”

Eames grins, pushes the wet hair off Arthur’s face. He pulls out carefully, and they both hiss at the loss. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s good. I want the soreness. It’s a nice reminder.”

“You might not say that in the morning when your arse is killing you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Arthur reaches up, curls a hand around Eames’ neck and drags him down into a lazy, post-coital kiss. “Hey, there’s something I meant to tell you.”

Eames finally drops down beside him, their legs tangled together, ignoring the mess. He slings an arm across Arthur’s chest. “And what’s that?”

Arthur pulls back enough to look up into Eames’ eyes, looking pensive suddenly. “I love you,” he whispers. “I really, really fucking do.”

A residual glow shimmers around them, and Eames’ forehead feels warm all over again. “I know,” he says. “And in case you couldn’t tell, the feeling is quite mutual.”

~  
Arthur’s not quite sure what to expect of his new life in Abbigrail Forest. He breaks his lease on his apartment and sells off the majority of his furniture, which was old and mostly second-hand, anyway; he’d yet to get around to buying newer versions, still sleeping on the ratty futon his mother bought him in undergrad. He moves in with Eames two weeks after leaving Cobb Industries (“You’re sure I can’t get you to stay?” Dom had asked a little frantically, and Arthur had simply replied, “This just isn’t what I’m meant to be doing with my life.”), and he feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders somehow. There are no deadlines in Abbigrail, no rush hour traffic, no pressure to measure up. Arthur can take a deep breath and just _breathe_.

And yet, he still feels...not quite settled.

Arthur wakes up in the mornings with his nose pressed into the warm curve of Eames’ neck, stretches contentedly, and thinks, There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here. Eames will hum in his sleep, bury closer to Arthur, his arm tightening around Arthur’s waist, and everything will be perfection.

Then Eames will get up later and say, “I’ve got appointments this afternoon, you all right without me?” Arthur will laugh, reply, “Yeah, I’ll be fine, how much trouble can I possibly get into?” And Eames will smile, kiss Arthur’s forehead, and drawl, “Oh, you have no idea yet. Abbigrail is _full_ of trouble.”

And that, it seems, is the problem. Arthur wants to know about his new home, the parts worth seeing and the parts worth keeping a safe distance from. He wants to know where the fairies hang out, where Yusuf’s cave is, if Miles actually has a house or if he just roams free. At heart, Arthur will always be an architect; he’ll always have an insatiable need to know the make-up of his surroundings.

He tells himself that it’s just going to take some time to adjust to living in a magical place—he’s a human after all, living with his unicorn boyfriend (and that thought alone makes Arthur snort to himself and crack up when he’s alone, blushing to himself). It shouldn’t be an easy, overnight transition. He just needs some time, that’s all.

Only Eames comes home one afternoon and finds Arthur standing out in the garden, looking out into the distance, toward the dense heart of the forest.

“What’s wrong?” Eames asks, sliding a hand around Arthur’s neck gently.

Arthur shrugs. “Nothing, I...wanted some air.” He sighs as Eames rubs his thumb back and forth over the top of his spine.

“You’ve been really quiet lately.”

“Have I?”

Eames nods. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?” he whispers, a touch of fear in his voice, like he’s afraid Arthur wants to leave.

Arthur smiles crookedly, leaning into Eames’ touch. “No, I’m not. At least, not the way you think I am.”

“Then what is it?”

He hasn’t been able to put a word to it, only knew what he was feeling was an abstract thing that wouldn’t go away. But now, suddenly, Arthur says, “I don’t have a place here.”

Eames flinches. “How can you say that, everyone loves you.” He looks hurt, and Arthur can’t help laughing softly as he turns around and kisses him.

“I didn’t say I don’t belong, I said I don’t have a place. Don’t take this the wrong way, Eames, but—I can’t just stay at home and be your kept boy. Human. Whatever.”

If possible, Eames looks even more hurt. “I don’t think of you like that.”

“You have a job. You...have things to do. People _expect_ things from you on a daily basis, and I miss that. Not the pressure or the stress, just...knowing I had a purpose. That’s all I want.” He cups Eames’ cheek, grinning when the pinch between Eames’ eyes grows deeper. “C’mon, I’m not leaving you or Abbigrail, promise.”

“But I want you to be happy,” Eames says miserably. “There’s not exactly a huge demand for corporate architects in a magical forest these days.”

Arthur kisses him again, nipping playfully at Eames’ lower lip. “Well, gee, how’d you get your gig?” he jokes. “Maybe you should pull a few strings.”

Eames pulls back, his eyes widening as he goes very still. “Arthur, that’s—that’s not a bad idea.”

He blinks. “What isn’t? I’m kidding, Eames, seriously, you don’t actually think I—”

Before Arthur can finish, Eames is rushing back into the house, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t move, I’ve got to make a phone call!”

“To who?” Arthur yells.

“Miles, if he’s not bloody overseas!” Eames says from inside the house.

~

Miles is not overseas. He arrives at Eames’ (and, Arthur thinks with a rueful grin, his) house an hour later, squinting thoughtfully at Arthur as he paces the living room. Arthur fidgets, feeling like he’s being judged somehow.

“I don’t know about this, Eames,” Miles finally says. “This isn’t standard protocol.”

“Fuck protocol, I know how you sodding wizards work, and it’s not by any set rules,” Eames says, but with affection. “Surely there must be something that can be done.”

Miles raises an eyebrow. “There’s a reason it only happens once very five hundred years or so.”

Arthur clears his throat loudly and holds up his hand. “Um, excuse me? I’d like to know what the fuck you’re talking about and why there’s a wizard sizing me up.”

“My apologies, I thought Eames had discussed this thoroughly with you before calling on me,” Miles replies, giving Eames an irritated look. “Really, Eames, it won’t work if he’s not willing, for goodness sake.”

Eames hugs his arms around his chest and huffs. “This—this is all hypothetical right now,” he says, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“ _What’s_ hypothetical?” Arthur demands.

“Whether or not I can make you become magical.” Miles says it matter-of-factly, easing himself into the leather armchair as he lights his pipe. “Basically, Eames would like you to become a unicorn like himself.”

Arthur’s heart leaps into his throat. He swallows tightly, then grabs Eames by the elbow, forcing his gaze. “Is that true?” he whispers.

Eames winces, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “It’s all I could think of. You said you wanted to have a purpose here, and I thought—if you were, maybe, magical as well, you’d feel more, I don’t know, like you’d found your place with me—”

“I don’t need to be magical to be happy with you, Eames,” Arthur says firmly. “And I don’t even—Jesus, I couldn’t even begin to know how to, to function as a—a—” He can’t bring himself to say it. Oddly enough, he’s not horrified at the idea of becoming a were-unicorn, but the thought doesn’t feel real enough to truly freak him out.

“It’s not that complicated, love, it just takes some time getting used to.”

“You mean, like living in an enchanted forest as the only human?”

Eames smiles sheepishly. “Touche’.” He splays a hand over Arthur’s heart and leans in to press their foreheads together. “I’m just trying to help.”

“It won’t work, anyway,” Miles pipes up. “Eames is the only unicorn in the forest, and there can be only one.”

Arthur smirks. “Like _Highlander_? Really?”

Eames snorts, but Miles frowns at Arthur in confusion and says, “Abbigrail has one protector, as all magical forests do. There’s really no getting around it. The balance of the realm will be thrown off kilter.”

“You make it sound so melodramatic,” Eames says, rolling his eyes as he smiles at Arthur. “I advise rabbits with gambling addictions. How’s that for the balance of the realm?”

“Don’t mock, Eames, magic really is a serious business.” Miles narrows his eyes intently at Arthur again, taping the end of his pipe against his lips. “You’re an architect, yes?”

Arthur nods.

“So you designed and built things.”

“More or less, yeah.”

“And how are your engineering skills?”

“I aced all the classes in undergrad. My methodology professor wanted me to come back and be his TA.”

Miles clucks his tongue. “Are you afraid of heights?”

Both Arthur and Eames stare at him blankly. “Not really, no,” Arthur replies uneasily.

Eames looks equally apprehensive. “What are you getting at, Miles? Arthur’s resume and phobias don’t have anything to do with being a unicorn.”

“No, they most definitely do not.” Miles gets to his feet, takes slow, considering steps toward Arthur, a strange sort of recognition shining in his eyes. He tilts his head at Arthur, rubbing his chin for a moment. “But they do, in fact, have everything to do with being a Pegasus.”

Arthur almost chokes on his tongue. “A what?”

“Pegasus. Winged horse, as it were, capable of flight and massive speed and velocity—”

“Yeah, I get that, but—but _why?_ ” He glances at Eames out of the corner of his eye. Eames’ cheeks have gone very pink.

“This forest has never had a Pegasus,” Miles says, his smile widening. “And truth be told, they are extremely rare; it’s quite difficult to find a human who possesses the necessary skills to become a proper were-pegasus. The Unicorn is the protector, but the pegasus is the backbone, the support system. You, Arthur, would be that backbone.”

Arthur blinks, his heart thumping quickly in his chest. God, was this really happening? Was a wizard honestly proposing he become a _flying horse?_ “What—what would I do as a—a—”

“You’d look after the integrity of the forest. The foxes’ dens are in desperate need of refurbishing; the fairies have been demanding a new waterfall for decades now; the lowlands always flood in the spring because the irrigation system is terribly out of date. You would tend to all of this—basically, make life easier for Abbigrail.”

“My right-hand man,” Eames adds softly, and when Arthur glances over, there’s a slight shimmer at the edges of Eames’ skin.

 _He wants this_ , Arthur thinks, wondering if his skin with glow as well when he’s incandescently happy. As terrifying as it sounds, this giant leap into the unknown, he thinks that somehow, this is the missing piece he’s been searching for since coming to the forest.

“What do I have to do?” he asks, squaring his shoulders.

Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand, whispers in his ear, “You don’t have to do this, you know. This is all your choice, not mine. I’ve changed your life enough as it is.”

Arthur shakes his head, turns just enough so that their mouths brush in a chaste kiss. “I know,” he says. “That’s why I want to do it.”

Miles is looking more and more excited. “Eames, give him some room, yes?”

Eames noses over his cheek quickly before letting go and backing away, blue eyes wide and anxious, skin still glimmering faintly. The spot on his forehead flashes, and Arthur thinks, _Yeah, I love you, too._

He closes his eyes when Miles says, raising both arms, “This won’t hurt a bit, Arthur, just keep still...”

Arthur holds his breath, feels a sudden, overwhelming warmth rush through his body, and then everything blooms into white light.

~

When Arthur comes to, he’s outside, beside the stream that runs behind the house. The sun is bright and shining warm against his skin. He tips his head up towards the sky, only to realize that his center of gravity feels very, very different.

_You’re still gorgeous. Not that I’m surprised, by any means._

Eames’ voice slides easily into his head, and Arthur looks up to find a familiar broad-shouldered unicorn standing beside him. Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but the words don’t seem to come out.

 _What’s happened?_ he thinks, and Eames’ soft laughter filters through Arthur’s head as he replies, _Go have a look_ , nodding toward the stream.

Eames heard Arthur’s thoughts. Then that means...

Arthur leans over the edge of the water and finally catches a glimpse of his reflection.

Shiny black coat. Long, fluttering mane. Black eyes. And a set of wide, powerful black wings tucked against his back.

He blinks a few times, looks down for the first time at his feet, now a set of four hooves. Arthur stamps the ground, once.

 _So this is real_ , he says, both to himself and Eames. _I’m...this is my true form, now?_

Eames lowers his head, nuzzles his nose against Arthur’s. He’s still much broader than Arthur, and taller, but Arthur feels—lighter. Quicker. He wonders if he could out run Eames like this.

 _True form is relative_ , Eames says. _You’ll identify as human for a long time to come. Maybe always. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Honestly, I hadn’t identified as human in decades until I met you._

Arthur straightens, shakes out his mane and tail, then gives his wings an experimental flutter. Instead, they fan out, full and steady, startling him a bit.

Eames laughs, and Arthur gives him what he hopes is a withering Pegasus look.

_Sorry, darling, I couldn’t help it. You’re adorable._

_I’m not supposed to be adorable_ , he sniffs, then takes a quick running start and abruptly launches himself into the air without a second thought. He is airborne and far above the tree line in seconds, the wind whipping against his body.

Arthur looks down at the world below, heart racing, and gives a loud whoop. He lands beside Eames a couple minutes later, breathless and shaking with adrenaline.

 _Holy shit_ , he says.

Eames just grins. _Want me to show you how to change back into human form?_

Arthur throws his head back, loving the feel of sunshine and the spring breeze against him. _Maybe not just yet._ He folds his wings back neatly, gives Eames a sly grin. _I’ll race you back to the house, though._

Those lovely blue eyes Arthur loves so well narrow suspiciously at him. _No flying?_

 _No flying, promise._ He butts his muzzle up under Eames’.

_All right, on the count of three—one—_

Arthur takes off at a dead run, laughing when he hears Eames’ loud _Fucker!_ blare through his head.

He was right after all—his new true form is lighter and far more aerodynamic than Eames’ bulkier frame. He makes it back to the house before Eames with minutes to spare.

 _Not bad, huh?_ he asks with a smirk as Eames trots up, head bowed and panting.

With a flash, Eames is back into human form, his chest expanding and contracting with each breath. “You are going to be bloody incorrigible now, aren’t you? I can tell.”

Arthur shakes his wings and grins.

~

Two months later, Arthur’s built a new condo for a family of squirrels, drawn up plans for the new fairy waterfall (“Water park!” Ariadne insists, and Arthur usually humors her), scouted a location for a fox den relocation, and added a skylight to their bedroom.

Eames comes home in the afternoons to Arthur’s blueprints scattered all over the kitchen, his glasses perched on his nose, his cell phone on speaker as he argues details with Yusuf about the new entertainment room they’re adding to his cave.

“The track lighting just isn’t going to work in that space,” Arthur insists, and Yusuf’s voice comes back tinny over the line, “But how am I supposed to enjoy my _Mad Men_ episodes without proper lighting?”

Eames will eventually get Yusuf to stop his incessant whining and hang up, then drag Arthur to the couch and strip him naked, slowly, licking over every part of his body Eames can find until Arthur is restless and begging. They’ll fuck on the floor, because Arthur likes wrestling Eames almost as much as he enjoys riding him.

Later that night, they’ll change into their true forms and go out into the fields for a midnight run, Eames chasing Arthur and Arthur letting him catch him. Eames will snuggle close when they curl up in the soft grass, Arthur’s sleek, beautiful black head tucked against Eames’ white chest, Arthur’s coat almost silver in the moonlight.

Doyle starts referring to things as A.P., as in “After Pegasus,” because according to him, “Life just wasn’t as awesome until Arthur came along.”

Eames couldn’t have said it better himself.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[art] Everything's Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/443750) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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